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Scott. A few men who had been lingering at the urinals sauntered over. They beat off as they watched my actions. He didn’t give me much of a warning when he came. Just like a punk. I spat him into the toilet and wiped what was left with the sleeve of my shirt. I finished off a few more, including Keerati, a computer aide in one of the labs on campus. My legs felt like rubber bands. I walked like a crippled old man back up the stairs. When I arrived back to the dorm, my favorite stud muffin of a guard was on duty.
    “Wassup?” I asked, searching my pockets for my wallet.
    “You cool. You up in 4B, right?”
    “Yeah. ’Preciate it.”
    I was surprised Scott wasn’t home. I put away the groceries I bought with the money he lent. I was glad he wasn’t there. It gave me a chance to search for evidence that would shed some light on Scott’s sexual preference.
    I rummaged through desk drawers of stationary and books. I checked his closet of pressed Oxfords, blazers and shoes lined in perfect rows, but nothing. No sign of videos or magazines, gay or straight. Not even so much as a Boy George album tucked away. I made sure I put everything back. Neither a shirt nor argyle sock was out of place.
    I popped a TV dinner in the microwave and went over a few new poems I wanted to work on for the next workshop when I heard Scott outside the door. I felt like a wife waiting up for her husband to come home from a hard day at work. He was armed with plastic bags that read  Szechuan Tasty House Chinese Restaurant  in red lettering.
    “Hey.” He sat the food on the kitchen counter.
    “Oh, you’re already having dinner.”
    “Yeah, but I always got room for Chinese. What’d you bring?” I grabbed some plates from the cabinet.
    “I got some chicken chow mein, Moo Goo Gai Pan, shrimp with lobster sauce, and a coupla egg rolls.”
    “Look like you cleaned ’em out.”
    “Pretty much.”
    “Di’ja get any fortune cookies?”
    Scott held a few up out of the bag.
    “What’s Chinese food without fortune cookies?”
    It wasn’t long before the entire apartment smelled of Chinese takeout. Scott and I filled our bellies with everything from chicken chow mein to fried rice.
    “Did you go see your mom?”
    “Yeah, she’s doing much better.” Scott’s mouth was greasy from the food.
    “I caught up with my brother, too,” he added.
    “How’s he?”
    “Busy killing himself with that shit he’s putting in his arm. I gave him some money and told him to stop coming around, that he was only upsetting our mom.”
    Scott was near tears. He angled his head down at his plate of food to keep me from witnessing his pain. I flipped the script of the conversation onto the cookies that held our fortunes.
    “What does yours say?” Scott asked.
    You have friends and you know it.  I thought since the evening ended so well, it would be the perfect time to talk to Scott about what happened, but I decided against it. I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire of Scott’s situation.
    That night I kept a close eye on him. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I heard that same rustling from the night prior. There he was again. I wanted to touch it, to lay my hands there, but I didn’t want to startle him awake. I kept my distance with my hand down in my drawers as I watched him under his snug tint. He pulled his covers over his actions. I went to the bathroom to finish up. Thought of Scott with each stroke, every caress, until I came into the toilet water. I cleaned myself up and started for bed. I knew something had to be said.
    The next morning the sound of pots clattering and bacon sizzling woke me. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and grabbed my glasses off the nightstand.
    “Hope you’re hungry,” Scott said.
    “Sure, yeah.”
    The table was decorated with plates of bacon and eggs, a saucer of toast, juice and coffee.  He knows , I thought, but