The best time to go grocery shopping is in the middle of the morning, before noon, but late enough that most of the young mothers -who stop by the store after delivering their van loads full of children to school- have already piled their carts high with foods most often found in cheap plastic lunch boxes, the kind with Barbie or Batman emblazoned on the side. Between the hours of ten thirty and eleven thirty, pretty much the only other shoppers one is likely to encounter are little old ladies with blue tinted hair and aging bachelors without anyone to do their shopping for them. Thus, I am able to cruise the produce section and the frozen foods aisle to my heart�s content, free from the gaggle of young girls who would otherwise attach themselves to me and follow behind in my wake like a cloud of cigarette smoke.

I used to like to shop. That is, before I began to see Justin�s face staring back at me from the tabloid covers lining the conveyor belt in the check out line. When my own ugly mug started making occasional guest appearances on the front of the National Enquirer, I decided I didn�t like shopping as much as I once thought I did. Now, I postpone my treks to the supermarket until the last possible moment, until there�s nothing left in the kitchen but a box of baking soda, a six pack of beer, and an ancient can of Spaghetti-O�s.

While the tabloids are usually good for a laugh and sometimes a cry, today I have a hard time looking at the newsprint magazines. I tell myself I shouldn�t be afraid of what I might see headlining the covers, but there�s something else that�s bothering me. Usually, I can barely handle the stories in which the truth is pulled like taffy, manipulated into something iniquitous. But today, the articles and paparazzi photos that are likely to be published *this* time are more fact than fiction.

Sure enough, when I steal a glance at Star, one of the only magazines with a color cover, I give an involuntary, heartfelt cringe. I can only hope to God and all the saints that Lance hasn�t seen this, that he never will. If it hurts me to see that curly haired boy wonder with a girl on his arm, then it would probably kill Lance.

Which is why, after I pay in cash, load my bags into the back of my 4Runner, and navigate my way out of the parking lot, I take the long way home; the route that passes through the crossroads that could, if I were heading in that direction, take me to Lance�s house.

As I drive, I think about how grateful I am that Lance finally caved, deciding to buy a residence in Orlando because he got tired of encroaching on Chris and Dani or putting up with JC�s mood swings. He used to stay with Justin, but that�s not really an option any more, I guess. Oddly enough, Lance has never once asked to stay with me at my apartment, which I�ve haven�t yet been able to figure out. I mean, we�re friends, I can cook a handful of mean pasta dishes and I�m not *that* much of a slob. But still, he�s never asked and I�ve only offered once or twice, issuing invitations that he turned down easily with the polite charm that is the hallmark of the southern.

An inane part of me wonders if Lance has even been out of the house for groceries since the beginning of our hiatus, or if he�s been living off loaves of bread he had in the freezer and a half empty jar of peanut butter. I suspect the latter is true, and suddenly I wonder if what I�ve got in the brown paper bags in the trunk is something he�d eat. It is with that question in mind, that my hands take on a life of their own, turning the steering wheel and taking a left turn instead of a right.

Lance�s two story house is situated in the heart of upper crust suburbia, in a gated community where the homes bear uncanny resemblance to one another and their owners pretend not to notice or care. I roll down my window and punch in the code that Lance gave all of us when escrow closed the deal, registering the house as officially belonging to James L. Bass.

The sky has darkened steadily since I left the grocery store, and now fat drops of rain begin to fall, splashing audibly on the windshield, obscuring my view of the road. I turn on the wipers and listen to their mournful sounds. Since I was a kid, I�ve always loved listening to the squeak and smear of windshield wiper blades. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear words and phrases buried in their sorrowful noise. Today, the wipers are sighing �Lance, Lance, Lance� over and over.

When I pull into the driveway, there are no lights on inside the house. Only the porch light burns, its meager illumination overpowered almost completely by the light of day. I get out of the car hesitantly, feeling as though I�m about to disturb the dead. A quick flash of guilt, and I�m standing here wondering if this was such a good idea while cool beads of rain slide down my skin, along the bridge of my nose. I slam my car door shut then trot up the cement path that leads to the front door.

He�s there before I have a chance to ring the bell, opening the oak door and staring at me like I�m a stranger, which makes me think he must have been watching and waiting for someone in particular. It takes him a moment to really see me, to recognize that I�m standing out of the rain on his porch and parting my lips in a not-so-easy grin that�s meant to make us both feel a little better about my surprise visit.

�Joey,� he says, and gives a bewildered smile. �What are you...� He trails off. We stare at each other for several beats before I swallow the strange lump in my throat and ask quietly,

�Are you going to invite me in, Lance?�

�Sure, sorry. Um. Tea? Coffee?�

�I came to see how you were,� I tell him in a gentle voice, the one I save for those times when comfort is needed. Lance gazes at me blankly, as if he doesn�t understand what I�m talking about. To look at him, one would think maybe he doesn�t because perhaps he�s only just rolled out of bed. His hair is crusty and stands up in spikes that aren�t of the carefully groomed variety. He hasn�t shaved in a few days, so there�s a dusting of fine, downy hair on his chin and along his jaw which, combined with his loose fitting gray sweatpants and ratty white tee shirt, makes him seem rugged, hardened. The set of his face is granite, the unique color of his eyes dulled by something previously unfathomable but now all too realistic. Pain flickers there, in the depths of his green gaze. Eyes that I once fancied feline, aren�t quite so alert, so *alive* anymore.

�Well,� he says finally, stepping aside and motioning for me to come in, �I�m good. I was just....I�ve been busy. You know, FreeLance. Contracts. Meredith. Stuff.�

�Sure, sure,� I nod enthusiastically, not buying a word of it. I think he knows I don�t believe he�s found much of anything to do since Justin left, but he also knows I�m not going to call him on it.

�You?�

�I�ve been here and there. Went out to LA to see about a part.�

Lance smiles at me, a smile that doesn�t reach his eyes and seems forced, but somehow genuine like he *wants* to be happy for me, he just can�t quite manage it. I follow him into the white and black kitchen, then watch him flick the switch on the Mr. Coffee. �And?�

I shrug. �I think I may have gotten it. It�s like, a comedy about an Greek family. Big, loud, loving.�

�That�s great Joe, you�d be perfect.�

�Mmm. You seen JC? I haven�t been able to get ahold of him lately,� I lie because subtlety isn�t my fort� and I can think of no other way to introduce the topic I came here for.

�Nope. He called a couple of times, but I just missed him.�

�Oh. How �bout Chris? Last I heard, he was gonna take Dani on a holiday to Saint Tropez.�

�I dunno, we haven�t spoken.�

�Oh.�

Silence. It�s uncomfortable, and makes me curse myself for getting into this, for even coming over here because it�s obvious Lance just wants to be left alone and allowed to wallow, and who am I to deny him that?

�Look, Joey. Just ask, okay? Just go ahead and fucking ask.�

At first I think he might be angry, but he looks resigned more than anything. His mouth is set in a firm, thin line as he braces himself on the counter, staring down at the two empty mugs in front of him, waiting for the pot to percolate. The only sound between us is the steady drip, drip, drip of the coffee machine.

�Have you talked to him?�

�Don�t have to,� he shrugs with a short, harsh laugh then opens the top drawer on his side of the island counter and extracts what looks like a stack of papers. He slides the stack across the tiles and soon I can see that it�s not a bunch of papers at all, but a magazine. Fuck. I look up at him.

�Lance-�

�No. Don�t say it. Just don�t say anything, okay Joe? Please?�

�Okay.�

So I don�t. Even though there are a million protests, possible explanations, sympathies, and curses building in my brain and bubbling up in my larynx, I say nothing. The rain outside has picked up and is drumming a steady rhythm on the window panes. It�s falling in sheets now; I can barely see ten feet into Lance�s backyard.

�Coffee�s almost done. We can have it in the living room, if you like.� Lance�s voice is timid now; lost and forlorn. I wonder how he�s been living like this for the past two weeks, how he hasn�t gone insane or died from heartbreak. Because his heart is obviously broken and I don�t think all the kings horses or all the kings men can ever hope to put him back together again.

�Sounds great,� I say with a strained smile. �Hey, look. I need to, uh....join you in a minute?�

Lance laughs weakly and his rolling, wild eyes remind me of a whip-shy colt. �Yeah, of course. You know where it is.�

I do. I�ve been here countless times and if I didn�t know better, I�d say I couldn�t stay away. I�m not sure why this place, this house that belongs to Lance, attracts me like a magnetic pole. Maybe it�s the way this blond man never seems absent from my thoughts, the way he�s even crept into my dreams at night. I feel for him something I probably shouldn�t, but at the same time I can�t imagine *not* being filled up with these stirrings I�m unable to affix a label to. All I know, is that the pieces of Lance I treasure fill in the holes inside myself until I don�t feel quite so gaping anymore.

The bathroom is the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. I take care of my business, then move to wash my hands. There, beside the sink, lay two peach colored terry cloth towels. On top of one towel is a razor, a comb, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste all arranged neatly. On the other, nothing. Something in my chest tightens as I look at the place Lance has laid for a man who isn�t coming back, at least, not in the capacity he once came. Seeing that spot reserved on the counter for Justin�s things, I wonder what the rest of the house looks like, if Lance has saved half of everything for a phantom lover in hopes of conjuring him back to his side.

A quick listen at the door of the bathroom tells me Lance is puttering around in the kitchen, so I slip down the hall to the master bedroom. I�m half afraid to open the door, but I do anyway and what I find on the other side is more than what I expected.

There are pictures everywhere: of Justin, of Lance and Justin, of the group when the two blond men are standing together, their arms thrown casually around one another�s shoulders. I walk into the bedroom and feel like I am walking into a mausoleum; it resembles a monument built in honor of a dying love, a love long dead but not yet forgotten. And how *could* he forget? Not with a veritable shrine, to the man he continues to pine after, assembled in his bedroom.

In addition to the photos, there are menus, ticket stubs, the remnants of Justin�s possessions. A dried rose, once red but now faded to a sickly, less vibrant hue, sits in a glass vase beside a gold necklace with the initials JRT hanging in pendant form. By the wrinkle of the unmade sheets on the bed, I can tell Lance has only been sleeping on the right side of the bed. Justin, I know, likes to sleep on the left.

�Joey?� Lance�s voice comes to me from the bottom of the stairwell. I leave the room without looking back.

�Here, Lance. I�m coming,� I assure him as I take the steps down two at a time. He smiles up at me, looking curiously small and fragile, so unlike the commanding presence I�m used to. �Is it ready?�

�All set. Cream and sugar for me and black for you,� he says shyly but with a special brand of confidence that comes from knowing another human being almost as well as one knows oneself.

�You got it,� I say, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze. That Lance craves affection is obvious in the way he leans into my touch, leans into *me*, and slips his arm around my waist. We stop there in the foyer, and I hold him like he needs to be held; gently, but with strength.

�You know,� he sighs into my chest, �he told me he wasn�t sure. About any of it. About himself. He said he thought maybe I could help him become sure. I thought I had, but then...�

�Yeah.�

�You think he loves her?�

I could feel Lance holding his breath as he waited for my answer. With Lance in my arms, I could feel things I�d always wanted to and would probably go to sleep dreaming about that very night. �I think he�s not sure who or what he loves right now, only that the world loves him.�

�I love him.�

�I know you do.�

But it wasn�t enough. A bitter chord is struck within me. How could one man, with so much love, squander himself on someone who had hit a rough patch of confusion, but no more? Lance is a solid soul longing after a person who is only just emerging from the chrysalis of self identity. Justin doesn�t know what he wants because he�s not through figuring himself out, yet. The shame falls on Lance for allowing his heart to be swept up in the tide of adolescent caprice then cast ashore like a piece of drift wood left to dry out into brittleness.

Lance steps out of my embrace but holds onto my hand as if I�m his lifeline.

�Stay a while?� he asks.

�Love to,� I reply.

Part of me wonders if Lance would build a shrine to me too, if things had been different. But I realize that, even if everything *had* gone in another direction, I would have never given Lance up like Justin did. If either of us were to walk away, it would have to be him. And even then, I think I might be inclined gather old pictures and pieces of Lance, set them up neatly, and sit in sanctity until he, the god of *my* sacrifice, returned.

[L�Envoi, by Rudyard Kipling]

The smoke upon your alter dies,
The flowers decay,
The Goddess of your sacrifice
Has flown away.
What profit then, to sing or slay
The sacrifice from day to day?

�We know the shrine is void,� they said.
�The Goddess flown -
�Yet wreaths upon the alter laid -
�The Alter-Stone
�Is black with fumes of sacrifice,
�Albeit she has fled our eyes.

�For, it may be, if still we sing
�And tend the Shrine
�Some Deity on wandering wing �May there incline;
�And, finding all in order meet,
�Stay while we worship at her feet.�