Maybe — Sean Stephane Martin

An extract: My high school career counselor was this florid-faced, overweight man who told me my problem was I was too linear in my thinking. Life, he said, doesn't always go straight from A to B. I needed to loosen up, he said; I should try some different avenues of expression. To someone who's sixteen, that didn't mean a helluva lot, except that maybe I should try a different road when driving home. It was years before I figured out he was making a pass at me.

By contrast, my now-very-much ex-husband Steve was the tan, trim, quintessential gay man who once told me that sex between us felt like an agreeable mixture of Candyland and Monopoly. That didn't mean too much either, but it sure felt like a step in the right direction. And I always knew when he was making a pass.

Oh, Steven...

I really needed you last night.

I mean, I'm writing today for the first time since... well, you know -- and it was always easier facing these mini-marathons after waking up next to you.

Well, not much to be done about that now, is there? I can't exactly call you up and ask you to come home. Be a bit difficult, eh? And the long-distance charges would be murder.

I know, I know: bad joke.