I remember playing racquetball in 1987. You were a foot taller than me and you always won. Racquetball wasn’t like the tennis I was used to. I asked you if your father ever let you win at anything when you were a small boy.

I wasn’t surprised when the answer was “no.”

You fancied yourself a wordsmith, and when the plays I wrote were performed by a local troupe where I acted, you insisted that we co-write something. I said “sure” and we even took a weekend retreat to a writers’ Bed and Breakfast to compose our masterpiece. But in the final product your hand was heavy, and for every word I wrote, you wrote 5.

I fancied myself a wordsmith, but I faltered when I tried to tell you that your world was foreign and I felt you didn’t speak my language. In 1993, after our dissolution, you made jokes about us “cruising chicks” together. I helped you move to your new apartment.

I laughed when you called, except for the time you said you had outed me to all of our friends.

I burned my address book.