But you and I are. I can say that I don’t have a better friend in the world than you are right now.”

“Well that’s good, Walter. Do you feel better?”

Walter thumped the space between his brown eyes with his middle finger and let go a deep breath. “No. No. No, I don’t. I didn’t even think I would, to tell you the truth. I don’t think I told you to feel better. Like I said, I didn’t want anything back. I just didn’t want it to be my secret. I don’t like secrets.”

“So, how do you feel?”

“About what?” Walter stared at me strangely.

“About sleeping with this man. What else have we been talking about?” I darted a look down the long bar. One of the fishermen was sitting staring at us, apart from the others who were watching a TV above the cash register, watching the Yankees game. The fisherman looked drunk, and I suspected he wasn’t really listening to what we were saying, though that was no sign he couldn’t hear it by accident. “Or about telling me. I don’t know,” I said almost in a whisper. “Either one.”

“Have you ever been poor, Frank?” Walter glanced at the fisherman, then back at me.

“No. Not really.”

“Me, too. Or me either. I haven’t been. But that’s exactly how I feel now. Like I’m impoverished, just suddenly. Not that I want anything. Not that I even can lose anything. I just feel bad, though I’m probably not going to kill myself.”

“Do you think that’s what being poor’s like? Feeling bad?”

“Maybe,” Walter said. “It’s my version anyway. Maybe you’ve got a better one.”

“No. Not really. That’s fine.”

“Maybe we all need to be poor, Frank. Just once.