Marty and Jerry had gotten to the point in their conversation when they’d run out of small talk and had to get to the business of confiding in each other.

“I feel like something’s missing,” Marty said to Jerry on the balcony. They’d been drinking mint juleps with some appeteasers – peel-and-eat shrimp, green olives, and rice crackers and a wicked cheddar cheese that made Vermont seem like the Bronx.

Jerry looked around the balcony and into the Mid-town condo. “I don’t see anything missing.”

“Nothing real, I just think something’s missing in my life.”

“You’ve got the best boyfriend a guy can ask for, a great condo in the middle of Atlanta, a hot body, and a great job. You’ve got the Armistead Maupin three – apartment, job, and lover.”

“That’s just it. I can’t shake the sense that God will notice and take it away.”

“Not to mention, Robert Donaldson finally sold the apartment next door and you don’t have to deal with his antics.”

“Don’t even mention that over-indulged cretin. He still makes my blood boil.”

“You can’t stand it that he’s not here anymore.”

“You’re insane. I popped open that five-year old bottle of champagne the day after the closing. And split it with half the entire building. I wasn’t the only one, you know.”

“Yeah, but you lived next to him and dealt with the dog poop on your doorstep, the snubs in the lobby, the accusation of pedophilia – you name it.”

“Wherever he is, may he rot in hell.”

“Something tells me you’ll have him rotting here.”

“If only.”