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cartons of yogurts, unfinished fruit and vegetable purees, prewashed carrot sticks. There is turkey, at least, and the end of a loaf.
    He clears away the medical journals cluttering the kitchen table to eat his sandwiches. The bread is too dry, he decides, should have toasted it first. He eats, though, and exchanges texts with Cathy. Yes, she confirms, the kids are fine. Guilt pangs Shawn’s stomach, and he refills the water glass with cold white from the fridge.
    He can’t always be there, and hell, he may be a parent, but he has needs, too. That’s what tonight is for, for him, for the itch he has to scratch. It’s early yet. The club scene now comes alive after eleven, crowded with guys from beyond the city limits. Those who will come from the far stretches of the South Side, like he used to, a route he could probably still navigate through a drunken stupor: Jackson local to the green line, an outdoor transfer to the red, back down below the belly of the city, a walk up piss-scented stairs to surface at the lights of the city center.
    He could end up at a place with flashing lights and pulsing bass; he can play at being nineteen again. But early, this early on, he opts for a shower. Shawn makes it a scalding hot one because he’s got it all to himself, unlike yesterday morning, and plans his outfit under the steam. A fitted shirt, he decides, to show off his arms. Soapy water sluices down his back and legs. Before he shuts off the taps, he rinses his balls with a cupped hand, and then drips his way into the bedroom. Button-down shirt—without the possibility of spit-up he can wear white, plus it sets off his skin, jeans—no, too casual—trousers are better, a soft charcoal twill. He slides black boxer-briefs up over his narrow hips, puts the rest on. Wallet, keys, phone now dim with no one to text.
    He walks five blocks to the red line and sits under a broken heat lamp. The 9:47 train’s delayed by ten minutes, and when it rattles in, his car turns out to be packed with shouting teenagers. Shawn pretends to study the ads for dentists and community colleges while they whoop and shout, hanging off their seats, passing a crumpled water bottle filled with the product of creative siphoning from parental liquor cabinets. They leave, thankfully, at Belmont, leaving him with late-shift hospitality workers and drunks who’ll ride the line to the end. The air outside isn’t much of an improvement from that underground, but he catches a whiff of the thawing lake, the burned smell of tar and stone coughed up by the afternoon’s construction projects. The potholes of winter are being filled in, orange cones directing traffic into one light-clogged lane.
    “Evening, sir,” the doorman nods, as he enters the lobby. Shawn tilts his chin in acknowledgment as he unwraps his scarf, shoving it in his pocket. He glides past the foyer, with low-slung seating, artfully arranged single orchids, small groups of women stirring swizzle sticks. Beyond another door dim yellow lights and the seductive clink of glassware beckon. He scans the room, seeing straight couples canoodling in booths. Not the kind of place he’d have picked. The drinks list is printed on translucent rice paper. Shawn has experienced this before, at an outlandishly spendy seventh-anniversary dinner at Alinea. Served with a flourish, the waiter murmured in reverent tones that the menu itself was their amuse-bouche. He shudders at the memory.
    “Can I explain the cocktail menu?” a bright-eyed mixologist asks.
    “No,” he tells her, as he rubs it between his fingers, swallowing away the remembered taste of glue, “I’d rather you didn’t.” Her eyes narrow, trying to suss him out—hammered, asshole, business traveler, shitty tipper, what? He orders a Crown and Sprite. The first sip jolts his tongue awake, the next spreads warmth down his neck.
    “Are you staying at the hotel?” she asks each customer who bellies up to the bar, and he, in turn, flicks his