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this: “He thinks I’m going to give him the virus.”
    “Don’t even joke.”
    “I’m not.”
    “You took the test, Robin.”
    “They say it can hide for a while in your bloodstream. Undetected.”
    “I know,” George says. “But you can’t make yourself crazy about every penis that’s been in your mouth.”
    Robin doesn’t say what he’s thinking, what George is probably thinking, too. It’s not so much penises-in-mouth that worries him, it’s cocks-up-ass. In New York City. For years now. Only lately did anyone recommend using a condom, only lately did they even have a name for this: AIDS.
    George follows him across the room. “What did he actually say to you?”
    “Something about the last time, when I let him fuck me with no rubber.”
    “You what ?”
    “Not for very long. He didn’t shoot.” Robin feels his face warm up; he knows how this must sound to George, can see him getting agitated.
    “But that’s riskier for you than him. Why is he putting it all on you?”
    “I’m the one with the history.”
    “Fuck Peter,” George says, cresting. “Fuck that hairy white boy. He’s putting you at risk and laying blame on you. He’s the one breaking up with you. It’s not your fault.”
    “You never liked him.”
    “Now you know why. He’s a mind-fucker.”
    “You might be right.” Now he might cry. Yeah, just cry yourself a river. George can handle it.
    As Robin wipes moisture from his eyes, the phone rings again. Peter! But no, it’s George’s mother.
    Mrs. Lincoln calls every few days to provide family updates, especially about George’s older sister’s upcoming marriage and the latest triumph his younger brother has scored on his way to the state track and field championships. While his mother talks, George cradles the phone at his neck, with little more to say than, “Uh-huh,” “Yeah,” “Really?” and so on. The joke around the apartment is to let the dishes pile up until the next call from Mrs. Lincoln, when George can get them done while she fills his ear with chatter. It’s a joke that hides a reservoir of uneasiness: His parents don’t ask him about anything but his school-work. He’s the brain in the family, as he’s been told since childhood, so as long as his grades stay high, they don’t need to know anything else. The Lincolns are all overachievers. Mr. Lincoln is a county administrator involved in local politics; Mrs. Lincoln has gone from school-teacher to secretary of the teacher’s union. Robin knows, though it’s rarely discussed, that George’s courses in premed are guided more by his parents’ deep desire for a doctor in the family than by any dream George ever held.
    When at last he hangs up the phone, George wraps his fingers around his neck and gasps, “Help! I can’t breathe. My mama sucked the air outta the room. Right through the phone!”
    Robin resists saying what he wants to say: Come out to them. You’re not going to have a real relationship until they know who you really are. The last time he tried to encourage this, George said, “You don’t know black folks, do you?” It was the first time, in all their years of friendship, that George ever said anything like that to him. Living here in this neighborhood, at this time, Robin thinks, no, maybe I don’t.
    Now, George walks to the kitchen and stares into the fridge. “I’m gonna make a snack. Want some frogs’ legs?”
    Robin grins and says, “Hold the formaldehyde.”
     
    This joke goes back to high school, freshman year, when they were lab partners in biology. George had a knack for science, a natural aptitude and a lack of squeamishness when faced with the series of animal dissections—long worms, huge, crunchy grasshoppers, bulbous frogs—that made up the bulk of their lab work. Robin felt lucky to have George by his side at those scratched-up wooden lab tables, helping him cope with the sickly smell of preservatives that rose up from the puny, pickled organs. George