Maybe the Moon

media. I’m not even sure if Philip is aware of my heretical change of costume. I’m assuming the stage manager told him, or told someone who told Philip, so it’s a little perplexing that he’s being so sweet now. Taking a wild guess, I’d say he knows the score but is nervous I’ll blab to the tabloids, thereby tarnishing his moment of glory ( THE REAL MR. WOODS IN BIZARRE BACKSTAGE MISHAP ). Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. The Star pays big money, I hear.
    There hasn’t been a peep out of Callum. Jeff thinks Leonard may have advised him against contacting me, since he, Jeff, is here most of the time, and that could only mean trouble. Who knows? You’d think he would’ve called, at least—for the news-grabbing symbolism of the act if nothing else.
    Renee and Jeff have been here from the beginning, though they spell each other occasionally, dashing off for hot showers and fast food. They’re both plagued by varying degrees of guilt, each holding himself personally responsible for the heart attack, since, in their eyes, they abetted the activity that seems to have brought it on. I haven’t wasted a lot of energy dispelling this tiresome notion, because there isn’t energy to spare, but I told them to lighten up in no uncertain terms.
    Renee and Jeff seem to have formed a sort of shaky unofficial partnership, based solely upon this turn of events. In less than threedays I’ve seen them learn to catch each other’s eyes and finish each other’s sentences like an old married couple. They accommodate one another in ways I wouldn’t have believed possible. Jeff doesn’t yell anymore when Renee reads to herself from her little white Bible—even though her lips move just as much—and Renee no longer winces at Jeff’s Keith Haring throbbing-dick T-shirts. We have a system, the three of us, now that one of us is in the hospital. Jeff and I had a system like that with Ned once, so there are curious echoes all the time, moments of shared déjà vu that pass without acknowledgment, between the two of us.
    There are five cardiac patients in this room, each with his own curtained cubicle. I’ve met only the old Greek guy and a southern-sounding lady on the other side, who seems to think I’m an extremely precocious child, judging by the tone she uses with me. I haven’t seen the others, since their curtains are always closed. I hear them, though—sometimes in the middle of the night—and the sounds are not encouraging.

    No, I have not called Neil.
    Renee and Jeff have both been pushing for that, but I’ve resisted so far, since I never told Neil about the plan and he would probably think I’m looking for validation after the fact. I have no strength for explanations at the moment. There’s also the chance he might try to convince me that what happened at his house that morning wasn’t a true measure of his feelings. Or, worse yet, the chance that he might not. I’m sorry, but I can’t open that can of wienies right now—not for a while.
    I don’t blame him for anything, really. The mere fact of my sexuality is tough enough for most people to handle, so there’s no reason to think that Neil would be any different, especially when it comes to defending his own role in that uncomfortable reality. Because of who he is and what I’m not, he’s made deviate by a culture that claims to regard sex as the union of kindred souls but doesn’t really believe that—and never will.
    Renee is in a chair by the bed, standing guard while I write. She is reading a back issue of Highlights for Children she found in the waiting room. She looks quite lovely today, wondrously soft and peachy, even without her makeup. There’s a becoming new light in her eyes I can only attribute to a certain Mike Gunderson, that Icon technician we evicted from the dressing room the night of the tribute. Mike, I’ve learned, helped Jeff fend off the curious after I dropped, staying close by Renee’s side and calmly reassuring her until the ambulance arrived. Renee has remarked more than once about how sweet and kind and absolutely adorable he was, so it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happened.
    A little while ago I told her she should call Mike at Icon and thank him for his trouble.
    “Why?” she asked warily.
    “For me,” I said.
    Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you call him, then?”
    “Because I’m not the one who wants to fuck him.”
    “Caaady…”
    “What’s the