Demarco nodded, stirring his vodka tonic with a tiny plastic straw.
"I've been considering a different place, somewhere out of the city. I've been looking at cabins."
Demarco looked at him, eyes wide. "You're joking."
"No."
"Do you know how many people get killed in isolated cabins?"
"You watch too many movies."
"Cabin in the Woods. Cabin Fever.Cabin 28."
"Never heard of them... Well, maybe the first one."
"Why do you need acabin. You can work anywhere."
"I need a change…stimulation."
Demarco nodded toward Mac. "That's what he's for."
"Will you be serious for a minute."
"Not my job. I'm the comedic best friend, remember?"
Alec ignored him. "Have you ever wanted to do something so bad that you thought it was calling to you, like some message from beyond. A psychicinclination… for lack of better words."
"How are you going to do that with music, Alec? I'm being serious here. You write about gay
folks. I read your column, your books. That's your gig."
"You sound like my agent."
"You're making money aren't you?"
"Money is not what this is about, D."
"OK, then," Demarco said, his tone changing. "Let's say you start writing a music book—on the side. How do youwriteabout music? I mean, other than instruction. People can'theara book."
Alec opened his mouth.
"And no audio-book cracks. Youknowwhat I mean."
It was hard to tell when Demarco was kidding, but in this case, he wasn't. "Well, you need
structure first," Alec said. "You decide on an artist… or band… or genre. You write different chapters, to compare the similarities. Why am I explaining this to you?"
"Because you're trying to explain it to yourself."
"I can do this, D."
"I know you can." Demarco grinned. "I just like the way your brow furrows when you get frustrated with me."
"You're very good at this. Playing people."
"That's why I'm the sex-worker and you're the writer."
Alec took a sip of his beer.
