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the back of his throat. He shoves it down and swallows. “It’s
okay.”
“Maybe next time,” Freddie says, quiet. He still won’t look
at Ira.
“Yeah, Fred,” Ira says, though that’s what he said last time,
and the time before that, and it’s cruel that they can’t even have
this anymore, that as the words leave his mouth they both know
it’s a lie. “Next time.”

•••
Ira’s getting dressed, tucking his shirt into his slacks, when
he realizes he’s forgotten to ask.
“You want me to make coffee before I leave this morning,”
he says, walking out into the living room, hiking his suspenders
up over his shoulders, “or would you rather I wait until…” Ira
trails off when he reaches the bathroom door, which is slightly
ajar. Freddie stands motionless in front of the sink, shaving
cream smeared on his cheek, safety razor pressed to the under-
side of his jaw. There’s a tremor in his hand, and his eyes are
fixed on his stump in the mirror. The box of spare blades sits
open on the side of the sink.
“Freddie?” Ira pushes the door open further.
“Jesus, Ira,” Freddie swears, pulling the razor away. A slick
bead of blood quickly wells up where he’d been holding it and
slips down his neck.
Ira straightens. “You all right?” he asks.
“Fine. I’m fine —just, Christ, warn a fellow before you do
that.” Freddie reaches down and tugs off a small square of toilet
paper, pressing it to the nick on his neck.
“Just wanted to ask if I should make coffee before I head
out.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Freddie says, taking his hand away
from his neck and rubbing what remained of his other upper arm.
“That’d be fine.” A red star blooms on Freddie’s neck, underneath
the paper.

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