Mrs. Larue wasn’t satisfied. Lichen fidgeted, felt the room’s dry heat, a presence no less blunt than his probation officer’s scowl. She wanted answers: why hadn’t he completed any community service hours; where was his AA attendance card; how did he accumulate a trio of “fails” on the breathalyzer wired to his ignition? The grimy window behind Mrs. Larue was large but the room shrank, the walls and floor and ceiling conspiring.

     The impervious woman reminded him of Miss Cleo, the infamous Jamaican diva, quietly deciding his fate. What was it she sold? That man, he no good. You listen to Miss Cleo. Yes, a psychic. That was her shell game. You call me, chile. I tell you ever’teen I see. She knew the future and shared it, for almost four dollars a minute.

     Outside the office, someone coughed. A light, low thump followed. Lichen cringed to think someone was listening to him fumble for words, itchy in his gray wool slacks, unnecessary cufflinks and boxy loafers. He wanted to die. No, he wanted to disappear. No, he wanted a dirty martini. He recalled the bracing burn in his throat. He had no excuses at the ready but spoke anyway, the words zipping forth like popped corks during a new year’s first moments. When he finished, Mrs. Larue rose from her seat, dismissing him with a modest wave. He’d mollified her, but couldn’t recall a word he’d said.

     This was occurring more and more often since he took the PR position at Bluebonnet Management, an agency devoted to convincing the public the very wealthy deserved their compassion. He spoke but said nothing. People heard what they wanted to hear. Mrs. Larue called for her next client. Lichen hadn’t enough time to loop his messenger bag over his head.

      “I thought that might be you!”

     Lichen’s head snapped up, and Moses materialized, hand extended. He wasn’t happy to see Mrs. Larue’s next client, but his hand grasped the one offered. Moses didn’t mesh with what Lichen envisioned for his life, how it would unspool once his pesky probation concluded. First, the new client had such disregard for Mrs. Larue that he dressed like a beachcomber for their appointment, checkerboard lounge pants roughly hacked to Capri-length, certainly not complemented by an oversized Green Day T-shirt. His hair, dyed burgundy, stood out in tufts and curls, the result of either too much styling or not nearly enough. Appearances were important, Lichen believed. Everyone owned at least one mirror. He gazed at Moses, reconciling himself with the hard reality that, in Mrs. Larue’s estimation, he and Moses were equals, offenders both.

     Her accent made comprehension dicey, but Lichen deduced that she wanted to know how two of her clients knew one another. Lichen froze. She assumed they were friends. Fraternizing with other offenders was forbidden no matter how minor one’s charge. Moses laughed warmly and explained that they met three months ago at community service.

      “You see!” Lichen chirped. “I have been doing my hours.”

      Mrs. Larue’s deadpan expression didn’t flicker. “But not dis month.”

      “My life is so unbelievably busy.”

      “Before all dis, you foun’ time to drink and drive.”

     Moses had taken his seat. He clucked sagely and shook his head. Expecting condescension, Lichen did a small double take at the intensity in his fellow offender’s gaze. There’s something you need to know, it said. But not now. Mrs. Larue didn’t notice, too absorbed in paperwork.

     Lichen hustled through the hall, unsure of the floor he walked, unsure of the elevators’ location. He had less than thirty minutes to make it downtown. Stella, the founder of his firm, didn’t know about his debt to the state. His parents hadn’t a clue. His assortment of nieces and nephews knew nothing. He’d cleaved his many friends and acquaintances into two groups: those who knew his shame and those who knew only the mask—but that was such an awful way of putting it. He could do better, he was a professional.

      Finally, he became cognizant of the tiny, wide-eyed Hispanic woman. Her hand lightly gripped his arm.

     “What—who? What’s happening?” He stumbled away, but she followed. She asked if he had chest pains. He forced a chuckle, his reliable grin placating her. How silly of them, he thought. I’m only thirty-five. The gathered group of offenders, she said, feared his heart had gone still.

     Gone still: Lichen manipulated the phrase in his mind. The elevator car descended. Gone still: it implied the heart had a choice. Those offenders thought his heart was a quitter. A plink, signaling the car’s arrival in the lobby, wiped the morbid thought from his mind. It was a gift, in a way, a recent one: whenever a painful emotion revealed itself, Lichen’s wondrous new instinct for self-preservation sprang into action. There wasn’t a mood or thought dire enough to penetrate that high and helpful wall.

       He strolled into the bleak winter morning, blithely stepping over the dirty ice collected at the curb. The afternoon wouldn’t prove warm enough to melt the slush, leaving it to re-freeze after sunset.

     Dallas County demanded that all offenders shut off their cell phones in municipal buildings. Lichen’s stomach lurched when contemplating the steep price of society’s ultimate luxury: disconnection. He slipped into his dark green SUV and prepared to pay.

      Stella had left two voicemails. As always, it was urgent. She’d texted nearly ten times—urgent, urgent, urgent. DeShawn had also called, practically sobbing, begging Lichen to answer Stella. His travel agent had left a voicemail, the excitement in her tone infectious as she informed him that his reservations for the Central American cruise, a gift he’d given himself for landing the PR job, were finalized. Next, his mother fretted whether working at this frenetic pace was healthy.

     None of these callers was who he’d hoped.

     His sister wanted to know if he could watch her kids Sunday afternoon. Brock wanted to go clubbing tonight. A service rep from his wireless provider promised a hot deal if he renewed his contract today. Finally, a girl left a hesitant voicemail, wondering if she’d reached “Harvey Dillingham.”

     Will hadn’t called. Will hadn’t texted. Lichen knew the implications: silence always preceded separation. The sooner they parted ways, however, the sooner they’d reunite.

     Lichen couldn’t remember which of his friends coined the phrase, “I miss your handsome face.” Ownership hardly mattered. It was imperative, though, to show due humility in his face-to-face world. As for cyberspace, no one was watching when friends used the phrase to conclude a post or tweet. Alone, he often grinned beneath the glow of adoration.

     It was undisputed: Lichen was the most attractive man his friends or family knew. Of course, they would hasten to add, his appearance merely complemented his joyful, giving and compassionate nature. Beautiful from the inside out, his mother liked to say. Lichen shared that woman’s iridescent blue eyes. No matter how sleepless a night, he always appeared alert and ready for living. His chin and cheekbones emerged sharply, his face angular, offsetting those blue wonders behind lush lashes. Even a brief smile soothed the fears of anxious clients. Surely, Will missed his handsome face.

     After pulling into Bluebonnet Management’s private lot, not as late as he’d feared, he clicked off the ignition and savored the silence. Typically, after arriving, he took his first selfie of the day. It wasn’t vanity inspiring him to pause and preen. His friends, flung among the country’s far corners, wanted daily reminders that his handsome face had greeted another day.

     Lichen tried Will’s cell number. Twice. He even tried his landline. If that’s how he wants it, let’s raise the goddamn stakes. He burst into tears behind the steering wheel, sobbing so violently that his knees knocked. After a few moments, he stopped. The onset of these crying jags coincided with his obligatory AA commitment. That connection never piqued his interest; his great instinct for self-preservation blocked any useful perspective on his own behavior.

     Chaos erupted at Bluebonnet Management earlier than usual. Mrs. Winterbourne, whose family brought a steady stream of both business and bothers, was furious the Dallas paper had splashed across its B section news of her eldest daughter’s meth-fueled crime spree. While the rich woman vented, Lichen covertly checked his phone. He imagined Will hooting at his quasi-boyfriend’s torment. Once the old bitch ran out of venom, he planned to post his selfie on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Not Snapchat—you had to draw the line somewhere. He’d been debating whether to begin blogging on Tumblr.

     Before realizing how far he’d drifted, Mrs. Winterbourne was donning her suede gloves. She couldn’t thank him enough. She wouldn’t forget his kindness. Lichen remembered nothing of what he’d presumably said to the woman. Still, he grinned in gratitude. She clucked, estimating how many girls’ hearts that smile could break. The receptionist escorted her out.  Once he was alone, a series of dry heaves reduced him to his hands and knees.

     It amused Lichen that his body type—slim with ample (but groomed!) body hair—was named after a sea mammal. Just like portly men blessed with hairy chests—and often backs—were called bears, Lichen was an otter. These labels were seldom used outside of sex websites and predator-packed nightclubs, but that was often enough. Will despised this, what he called the “trivialization” of male beauty. So, as Lichen uploaded his selfie onto the social media networks, his first line read #SingleOtter. Others included #FreeAtLast and #AllByMyself. During a quick lunch at the taco truck, he checked the sites for affirmation; his friends were nothing if not dependable. You’ll get thru this! There’s some great guy just waiting for you! I miss your handsome face!

     It was too much. It had never been enough.

     The fight had been silly, a misunderstanding borne of misinformation. When Lichen had returned from Bluebonnet, the late news about to begin, Will had stood rigidly in the kitchen. The bottle of high-class gin also waited, on the counter, like a lane’s one remaining bowling pin. His lover never looked more handsome than when indignant. And, sometimes, if the conflict abated quickly, never was he more passionate.

     Lichen explained how the bottle must have been from an old hiding place. Before he’d quit, he told Will, he had stashed at least a dozen. Will wasn’t satisfied. “If I’d wanted to date a Dallas drunk,” he wailed, “I would’ve picked a cheaper neighborhood.” He stormed out. Lichen let him go. That man, he no good. You listen to Miss Cleo. Whenever Will returned, contrite, Lichen warmly accepted him, into their home and, of course, into their bed. But he hadn’t returned. You call me, chile. I tell you ever’teen I see.

* * * *

     Stella was a commanding middle-aged woman, radiating the image of velveteen castrator. After Lichen took his seat across from her, they exchanged pleasantries. Then, sadly shaking her head, she lamented that the pressures of the PR business had proven too much for DeShawn. Lichen mimicked her head movements and related, with a tone reserved for describing retarded children, the story of DeShawn’s panicked voicemail. He elaborated, making a point to include DeShawn’s numerous other lost battles with anxiety. Stella asked him to keep their meeting confidential, even after she terminated DeShawn later that afternoon. Returning to his office, Lichen asked the receptionist to find a florist that delivered after business hours.

     A happy chirp alerted Lichen that roads were expected to freeze that evening. His mother hoped he would rush straight home after work. She ended her text with Brrrrrrr! Lichen erased her voicemail without listening. He did, though, place a nervous client on hold long enough to nail down evening plans with Brock, a buck-toothed but fiercely loyal friend. Attractive men, Lichen knew, sabotaged one another. No chance of that with Brock. Without Lichen’s benevolence, the poor sissy would find himself in a social sand trap.

     Moments after his friend hung up, an unknown number appeared. He answered; it was part of his job. Clients often called from the most random of places.

     “It’s Moses. Do you have a moment?”

     Lichen blinked, skimming the overstuffed file cabinet in his head, to place this man’s name, maybe voice. There was an outside shot that they’d tricked during his drinking days. In those situations, he always pled amnesia.

     Moses cleared his throat. “We have the same probation officer.”

     Yes! The homemade Capri shorts! “How did you get this number?”

     “I have to tell you something, and I don’t trust Facebook.”

     Lichen instantly regretted the friend-invite he’d sent. Lichen asked again how he got his office number. Moses reminded him that he’d mentioned, several times, his employer’s name while the two young men had chatted, killing an interminable five hours at the Goodwill in the city’s far-flung northernmost neighborhood.

     Lichen had initiated the conversation. They were both cursed with mannerisms and vocal cadences that branded them, especially among the rednecks and English-challenged offenders, as men with a fondness for one other. The young homosexuals had discussed Dallas social politics, growing up “different” in a small town (neither man hailed from the city), and other strangers-at-a-bus-stop standards. Moses offered a comforting warmth, like the first belt of good vodka, but Lichen knew he had to regard that afternoon as a sort of trick, and nothing more. He had a reputation. He had, and he hated the word, followers.

     When Moses slipped him his number, the more attractive man took pity and sought him on Facebook. The kid who created Facebook dressed like a bum, too.

     “You can’t call my office for no reason. That’s very—”

     “I need to tell you about Mrs. Larue.”

     “She seemed pleased when I left.”

     “You know what the guys in county lock-up call her? The Terminator. She’s violated more men than all the other agents on her floor combined.”

     Lichen swallowed hard. He’d assumed Mrs. Larue was another satisfied customer.

     “Keep it on low until your next appointment,” Moses said. “And don’t go clubbing tonight.”

     “How the hell did you know that?” His outburst roused the receptionist. He gestured that all was shipshape. She lifted an eyebrow, a gesture of snide theater, and returned to her keyboard.

     “You post on Facebook every time you cut wind.”

     Lichen seethed, but he was determined to handle the matter graciously. He survived torrential downpours from Mrs. Winterbourne and her ilk week after week; he’d easily pacify a loser in homemade Capri’s. While checking email, Lichen blathered about the value of friendship, the necessity of letting loved ones make their own bad decisions. He spoke of gratitude and compassion and the nature of charity. When Moses cut him off, his monologue skittered into the distance like cockroaches after one turns on a light.

     “One more thing.” Moses’s voice strained.

     While he waited, the shock, full and dense, ballooned inside him. Moses, he realized, wasn’t convinced. The man in homemade Capri’s wasn’t sold. A dirty martini seemed necessary.

     “When I shook your hand this morning,” Moses continued, “I got a real bad vibe.”

     Lichen cleared his throat. He stole glances, making sure no one heard. “Thank you for thinking of me, sir. Goodbye.” Needing cheap comfort, he clicked his browser, and Facebook surfaced. I miss your handsome face! A cute boy named Alex had posted that. He and Lichen had made out at a club last summer. Or maybe last winter.

     Brock would be waiting at The Bulge in an hour and a half. Oak Lawn, the city’s sprawling gay neighborhood, boasted dozens of bars, clubs and restaurants full of polished men ready to preen. Before starting his SUV, he snapped another selfie. When he posted, the first line read #TGIF, and the last read #PutOnYourDancingShoes.

     At the club, smashed inside a booth en route to the main dining area, Lichen toasted his loyal pal, knocking his tumbler of diet soda against Brock’s martini glass. “We’ll see every candy-ass who shows his face,” Lichen enthused. He touched his iPhone, resulting in a faint click. He liked his smile in this selfie better than the previous ones.

     As Brock introduced himself to a third martini, Lichen regaled him with details of Will’s most recent desertion. While Lichen slurped down a half-order of shrimp cocktail, his friend encouraged him to confront Will about their waning sex life. Long after eclipsing the tipsy stage, Brock offered to buy Lichen a drink. As always, Lichen responded with mock indignation. Brock gazed dumbly into the dining area’s throng of redirected masculinity; Lichen observed him. The receding chin, sandy blond hair needs a trim, clothes so nakedly trendy that they appear to wear him. Handsome, aloof men paraded past. One shot Lichen a baffled expression: what are you doing with him?

     When a cute, buffed-out guy not more than twenty-five appeared at his table, Lichen acquired a neutral expression. The new arrival was six and a half feet tall, his posture oddly formal. Lichen was reminded of Lurch from The Addams Family, the creature bowing awkwardly while the storyline unfolded elsewhere. The good-looking goofball was asking their names, struggling to hear over all the drunken posturing.

     “He didn’t want you to find out online,” the goofball said. “News like that hits you right between the eyes.”

     Lichen watched Brock struggle to focus. “Didn’t want Lichen to find out what?” his friend asked.

     “I’m his friend,” the goofball continued.

     Lichen snapped forward, slapping his hand on the table. “You’ve talked to my boyfriend?”

     “The guy’s name is Harvey Dillingham. We live up in Plano. We’re roommates.” The goofball glanced at the jacked-up crowd and grimaced. “I owe him a big favor, or I wouldn’t have come all this way.” Plano was one of Dallas’s most northern, and most elite, suburbs.

     The name thumped against the sides of Lichen’s skull, like beats on a snare drum. An ugly revelation: how did the goofball know where to find him…and what he looked like? What would be so terrible to learn online? He’d heard the loser’s name before. Recently, too. But where?

      Brock shoved his iPhone in front of Lichen’s face. The screen showed Will’s profile page on Facebook. Lichen spied a picture of two men embracing, their dopey grins eager for the lens. Of course, one was Will.

     “Who the fuck is that?” demanded Lichen, pointing at the iPhone.

     “That’s my roommate.” The goofball smiled sadly. “Harvey’s a really great guy.”

* * * *

     Brock tried to talk to his friend. Lichen drained the fourth martini in less time than it took to play an extended dance remix. Brock switched to baby talk, assuring him that he’d find a decent guy, one who didn’t post pictures of his date with a random guy before breaking up with his current lover. Lichen hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in two years; the four martinis quickly did their blessed work. His head listed. He tried focusing on hot guys, but a woman’s Calypso-tinged voice uttered nonsense: That man, he no good. You call me, chile. I tell you ever’teen I see.

     Before dropping the axe, the goofball had mentioned a party in the neighborhood’s tony Turtle Creek subdivision, at a high-rise so exclusive that a waiting list existed for simply touring a unit. “We can see this place without some real estate bimbo perched on our shoulder,” Brock had said. That would impress him, Lichen had thought bitterly. Leaving, the goofball had half-heartedly urged Lichen and Brock to look for him.

     “I wonder how many floors till you hit the top?” Brock said as he and Lichen gazed up at the high-rise. A prim doorman opened their cab, the duo punch-drunk with envy. Lichen urged his friend inside. With a north breeze, the night air felt over a dozen degrees below freezing. Brock wondered aloud whether it would get colder as they ascended.

     The elevator trip was so swift that Lichen checked door numbers to verify their arrival at the nineteenth floor. The party proved shockingly easy to crash. A college-aged girl asked the duo if they were Crandall’s friends but didn’t wait for an answer. About fifty guests milled in the living room, more revelry promised in the kitchen and more still in the unseen bedrooms.

     Lichen dismissed Brock, urging him to find a hot guy with low standards, and slumped into a corner, his only companion a tall stereo speaker lined with varnished wood. Drinks kept finding their way to his lips. These good souls guaranteed Lichen never felt a moment’s thirst. He caught sight of the goofball, his bare back, but the kid vanished before Lichen got his attention.

     His phone! He hadn’t checked his texts or voicemail since leaving The Bulge. Lichen hadn’t needed to leave his corner, the speaker beside him thumping, but he wanted a break from the din. Having lost track of his liquor, he suspected the guests of a grand scheme, their attempts at conversation a bald act of charity. He spurned the few urging him to stay inside where it was toasty. He grabbed the sliding door, yanking so hard, it screeched throughout the apartment.

     On the balcony, glass door separating Lichen from the others guests, their discussions coalesced into rumbling, like whirlpool bubbles. Finally, their voices filtered into distinct, discernible exchanges. His brow clenched and his forehead puckered as he concluded each guest was babbling the same few lines: That man, he no good. You listen to Miss Cleo. You call me, chile. I tell you ever’teen I see.

     Parched, he dared a glimpse into the apartment...

     Every guest looked like Moses!

     Even the “female” guests were mere duplicates of Moses, all wearing evening dresses and fancy wigs. Every guest: the same hook nose, coal-black eyes and raucous laugh. Through the unstable sea of Moses-derived revelers, a flat-screen television aired those irritating infomercials. Miss Cleo promised, in her cartoonish Caribbean accent, a bright future for all who could afford $3.99 per minute. The whole scene was impossible: a roomful of guests, dressed differently, but all looking and gesturing like Moses; those same guests channeling a charlatan psychic from late-night TV; the alleged psychic’s infomercials running in a loop despite having left the air over a decade ago.

     The wind whipped around the high-rise at a cruel speed. Lichen clutched the handrail, his loafers sliding back and forth atop the icy platform. Desperately, Lichen started his voicemail—anything to distract from the surreal scene.

     His sister had called again, still needing a sitter. Stella was next, praising how he handled matters with DeShawn. As if on cue, that very former co-worker followed, sobbing about the lilies that had just arrived. Lichen was such a kind man, such a good friend. DeShawn didn’t blame him for his unfair dismissal. He kept babbling, kept sobbing. Lichen, for a moment, forgot about the brutal cold, forgot about his tenuous upright position, his shoes sliding atop the ice. DeShawn slid further down his shame spiral.

      And Lichen lost his footing.

     His iPhone flew from his grip. His limbs, stretched like a windmill’s spokes, found no traction, feet aloft and hands batting the air. He slammed against the handrail, body jackknifing. The icy driveway beckoned nineteen stories below. The breeze stilled. He felt weightless, trapped in a vacuum. All that could penetrate, it seemed, was his iPhone. Amazingly, he heard the voicemail even as his phone lay on the balcony. His mother warned him, once again, about the coming freeze.

     When Brock abruptly slid open the glass door, the surprise sent Lichen over the ledge. He plunged nineteen stories, body shattering below on the icy drive. He didn’t hear Brock scream. He didn’t hear the handful of residents scream from below. He thought nothing more profound than: I fell off the fucking balcony. I need new shoes. It really is cold outside. To Brock, it appeared he’d jumped, and the tragedy’s truth died with Lichen. The news crews converged, reporters sniffing for witnesses. Lichen’s name was never released. Unless the victim was famous, the press held back the names of suicides. Why shame them among strangers, too?

     For months, Lichen’s friends speculated on why a man with great looks, a great job and great friends would take the leap. Some said he’d returned to drinking. Friends and family, of course, blamed heartless Will. His rejection drove poor Lichen over the edge—literally! Will finally had to leave Dallas and scurry to Houston. A few of the bereaved would’ve gladly traded places with Lichen. He was beautiful from the inside out, his devastated mother reminded relatives, during drunken early-morning calls and online posts.

     Anyone who bought Brock a martini could learn Lichen’s final words, said in confidence to him and no one else, before his dear friend tipped over the rail and into the night. But, his story kept changing. Lichen said, moments before his lips met those of Lady Death, whatever Brock’s mood dictated. Each time he told his story, he pretended, for a moment, his comrade was still alive, urging him to target anyone “desperate” at last call. Dishonesty seemed, to him, a small price for life. Brock missed that handsome face with a brutal ache. Only by archiving Lichen’s final moments could Brock retain the social status his friendship had provided.

     On Facebook, the poor man’s friends convened. The picture they agreed best captured his joyful spirit, curiously labeled #SingleOtter, was taken the day he died. They left posts of regret tinged with astonishment, what friends typically write after a sudden death. Both on his birthday and his death’s anniversary, a few diehards composed maudlin tributes online. Their number decreased just a bit, year after year, until…well, life went on. It didn’t give a damn about that handsome face.