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“I know better than to be subtle with your stubborn ass, so let me say this: the cool bachelor thing runs out eventually. It’s a different story at sixty. Remember how my moms always said a good woman is like a seat on a long bus ride? Only thing that can make a long journey comfortable, so you better sit your ass down soon as one opens up. Speaking of, I gotta head to the bus to link up with Ro. It’s good you had to bail on me this afternoon after all.

The little dig is there, even if Devon doesn’t mean it that way, by “bail.” But Kwame did have to beg off early today since this was the only time Sylvester could meet. Usually, after these monthly graveside visits, they head straight to do something fun and silly to offset the heaviness of the morning. When they’d first planned today’s visit, Devon had mentioned wanting to play miniature golf, of all things. At a joint called Putt-N-Stuff. Devon loves places like that; can’t get enough of Barcade and Escape Rooms. He’d even dragged Kwame to Sky Zone, to bounce on some trampolines last summer. Kwame had at least roped his niece into joining them so they weren’t just two Black men bouncing around like overeager toddlers. Six-year-old Tallulah and Devon had a blast, while Kwame was distracted thinking the whole place was a biohazard. You couldn’t convince him those trampolines or ball pits ever got cleaned.

Maybe his friend is just young at heart or—and this is Kwame’s theory—Devon feels like he missed out on many years of being silly and carefree and wants to make up for the hours of fun he’d lost. In prison, he’d picked up a mean game of chess and played hours of solitaire with a tattered deck of cards—but neither could compete with a day at Six Flags, which was also on his bucket list come better weather. Now, Devon could do all this with Rochelle. Kwame didn’t feel let off the hook, so much as he felt… well, he couldn’t name it, but something like the way he did when he saw all the middle school bullies playing hoops and laughing as he walked by the neighborhood courts.

“Oh yeah, where y’all headed? Feed each other ice cream? Slurp up a single pasta noodle till you’re kissing?”

“Ha! I wish. We’re going to HomeGoods or some shit. Shop for some art and candles and whatnot. She says we need a dust ruffle, whatever that is. I can’t believe I’m that dude. I’mma gonna be carrying her purse next.”

“There are worse things.” Like not having a lady around at all. Like loneliness, which crept up on Kwame like the shadowy gray hairs that appeared out of nowhere this past year and engulfs him thinking about his empty place. Kwame may be constantly irritated by the globs of toothpaste Devon leaves in their shared single bathroom, or the way he seems to think Kwame’s the only one able to hit up a grocery store, but it’s been nice to have someone to come home to.

Kwame had a lot of friends at one point. He’s got the concert ticket stubs and photos of road trips and nights in the club to prove it, but that time feels like a stage of life that’s slipped away, like summer camp at the Y. Those friends moved out of the city or were lost to married life or were, like him, “so, so busy,” or at least, like him, claimed to be “so, so busy.” Devon was right. Kwame should try to meet someone, get on the apps, hit up a bar, sign up for a kickball league or something. But it requires so much effort for no guarantees. It isn’t like his real job where he can work hard and be rewarded for grinding. You can hustle all day and all night for love like your life depends on it (and in a way, doesn’t it?) and still come up as empty as the bed he sleeps in every night.

“We’re going to get some drinks later over at the Spot. Why don’t you come through? You can meet Rochelle and I can see if she can bring a friend… or two… or three. You know, options.” Devon raises an eyebrow. “Or why don’t you hit up the foxy pharmacist? Didn’t she send you a pic of her titties? If that’s not a gracious invitation, I don’t know what is.”

Said foxy pharmaceutical rep has been blowing up Kwame’s phone since their rendezvous in New York, which is good for his ego at least. He doesn’t even remember giving her his phone number that night, but a week later he got a text about how it was cool to hang. He bit, texting her back, and it was on. It isn’t all bad to wake up to a “Morning, sexy” to start your day, or the occasional risqué selfie, but sadly, that’s about all the excitement he can muster for this woman.

“Nah, I’m good on all that. I gotta get to this meeting, and after that I’m just going to chill.”

“You mean watch Star Trek reruns and check your phone every two seconds to see if Simone’s reached out?”

Kwame doesn’t bother denying it and Devon doesn’t even know the extent of it, but no need to ruin the vibe with talk of Kwame’s romantic woes, with his boy so happy and glowing and all.

“I hate seeing you like this.” Devon looks at him with the same concern that Kwame always had when he visited Devon over the years, taking him in from head to toe to try to assess how well he was holding up, how close he was to breaking.

“Like what?”

“Whupped by a married woman, that’s what. It’s not healthy, man.”

Kwame doesn’t answer. He can’t use the metaphor he keeps thinking of to describe his predicament, for obvious reasons. But loving Simone like he still does often feels like a prison sentence. You couldn’t just get out—all of it was beyond your control.

“She’s not exactly happy. When we talked… she told me… there are cracks.”

“And you’re just gonna try to slither through one of ’em like a snake?” Devon pauses to let the subtext sink in. You’re better than that, man.

Problem is, Kwame’s not sure that’s true.

Sylvester somehow looks smaller this far away from Tate. On campus he seemed in his element; here, out of context, he seems like a stooped elderly man who’s a little confused by his surroundings. He looks downright relieved to see Kwame approaching, not the stubbornly reluctant man Kwame had expected. Something about seeing him like this tugs at Kwame, and for a moment he almost pulls the man into a hug. He catches himself, settles for a hearty slap on the back instead, and slides into the wide booth.

“You know how to do this thingy?” Sylvester holds up a plastic placard on the table with a QR code. “Used to be a real person would come by and ask you what you wanted to eat or drink. Now you gotta use a phone or something.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can do it. I got you. I’ll order, and it’s my treat. A pitcher of Coke and pepperoni pie okay by you?”

“That’s fine. I don’t know that I got time to eat. I need to get to my sister’s place. She don’t mess around when it comes to her birthday, and there’s some scavenger hunt planned, something we are way too old for but she saw it on TikTok, which we’re also way too old for, I might add.”

“It sounds fun. I won’t keep you long. And sorry for running behind. Traffic was tough and I was helping a friend with something.”

“Same friend you sprung from prison?” Sylvester asks.

“Actually, yes,” Kwame says, trying to hide his surprise. “You listened to my podcast?”

“Yeah. After you left your card. It’s the reason I wrote you back. I listen to shows all day long now that I have these AirPods. One of the students lost ’em. They’re always losing things and then just buying themselves another. It’s crazy being so careless with something that costs more than a hundred bucks.” Sylvester shakes his head, half-amused, half-disgusted.

“I don’t let myself buy the pricey ones,” Kwame admits. “I’m always losing just one, or they fall out while I’m running.”

“Bet you’re not as careless as those Tate boys, though, or maybe you are. I don’t know you at all. Feels like I do, from listening to you talk. Strange thing how people can get in your head when you hear them on these things. Sometimes I felt like I was with you and that other boy. What was his name again? It was Devon, yeah?”

“Yeah. Devon.”