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pizza to the garbage.
    “Who’s Mr. Winkle?” I asked him.
    “Paul cal s al record executives Mr. Winkle.”
    “Why?”
    “I have no idea.”
    Then, trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “Who’s Avril?” Michael rol ed his eyes. “Paul’s girlfriend. But her name’s not Avril, it’s April. She’s trying to break into modeling and decided she needed a classier name.”
    “How long have they been going out?”
    He shrugged. “A month, maybe.”
    “Then who’s Beth?”
    Michael shrugged again. “Eliza, a piece of advice: don’t try to make sense of Paul’s love life.” Paul exited the bathroom shirtless, zipping up a pair of jeans. His chest was gaunt and hairless, his arms were sinewy like the Jesus on the cross above my bed, and he had another tattoo, a Chinese symbol, on his right shoulder. The tattoo occupied my attention for entirely too long.
    “It’s pronounced wu ,” Paul said, fingering the black ink.
    “What does it mean?”
    “To awaken to righteousness.” He paused. I’m not sure what he saw in my eyes, but he said, “Yeah, I know. It’s an ongoing process for me.”
    I glanced down into my glass and pretended to pick a piece of pulp from my juice. When Paul spun around, I watched him reach to the floor of his room, grab a random shirt, smel it, and then slip it over his head as smoothly as if carried by the wind.
    It occurred to me then that I hadn’t had sex in six months.
    3The last time was the day I found out Adam was sleeping with Kel y, when I’d come across a text message on his phone and realized he’d been with her less than an hour after he’d had his head between my legs.
    Bal istic, I went straight to Starbucks, ordered my usual, and asked Kel y if she liked the way my pussy tasted. She threw the caramel macchiato at my head and cal ed me a psycho.
    “Why do you cal record executives Mr. Winkle?” I asked Paul.
    “Because that’s what they do,” he said. “They wink at you. Then they wipe their asses with their hands and shake yours, and they think you can’t smel the shit.” Paul started pacing near the door. He wasn’t wearing a watch but he glanced at his wrist, glanced at Michael, and said, “Let’s go.
    We’re late.”
    July 24, 2000
    “This is a bad goddamn sign.”
    That’s what I said to Michael when we arrived at the meeting spot designated by Mr. Winkle—a crowded, upscale micro-brewery in Midtown, fil ed with the grown-up versions of the guys I went to high school with—the shitheads who scored touchdowns, got al the girls, and cal ed me a fag.
    The other two Michaels were already at a table. When Caelum and I sat down, Burke said, “Winkle’s not here yet.” This is where I should probably describe the band. For— what do you cal it when you want your kids and their kids to know? Posterity?
    I’l start with Burke, our bass player. Burke’s a tal , gangly guy with more rhythm than John Entwistle and John Paul Jones combined. He just turned twenty-five; he and his girlfriend Queenie live in a studio apartment below street level, and they have this big laundry sink in their kitchen where they make ice cream in their spare time. Burke is obsessed with ice cream. His dream is to own and operate a homemade ice cream shop someday— he’s constantly talking about what kinds of “epi-curean” flavors he’l serve, and how the secrets to a custardy consistency are the use of fresh ingredients and a perfect ratio of cream to butter fat.
    People always ask if Burke and Caelum are brothers because they’re both so tal , and neither Michael seems bothered by the How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 4:59 PM Page 36
    3question, but it drives me out of my mind because besides the height they look nothing alike. Burke’s got blond hair and freckles. Caelum has a mass of dark pubic hair growing out of his head. Plus, how the hel could they be brothers when they have the same first name? That only works if your last one is Foreman.
    Caelum—what can I