Sequence Six: One Big Wish

"So, I had to track Marco down to get your new number. You have a stalker or something? Why the change?"

Nuncio was out and about with Joao, poking around the antiquarian shops of San Francisco as the afternoon grew long and lazy. Joao was looking as effortlessly handsome as always - it struck Nuncio as unfair given how little effort Joao put into his appearance, and how hard he drove himself. Joao was an unsuccessful artist, and as such he did all the things that artists do that ordinary human beings would never survive: He fueled week-long sleepless creative binges on meth, black coffee, and PCP-laced cigarettes. He'd been a heroin user for years, until one day he decided that the drug made his inspirations "too red" and proceeded, without fuss, to kick the habit in order to pursue what was to be his "blue period" (but which swiftly mutated into his "teal phase").

Joao moved through a demimonde of high tragedy, low comedy, and everything in between. Recently, he'd taken an office job at an insurance firm, using his master's degree in mathematics as a risk assessment manager. He did it, Joao confided to Nuncio just before accepting the position, because he was uneasy about renewed efforts in the state legislature to abolish government subsidies for persons living with HIV. The medication was an absolute necessity -- and utterly beyond his means to pay for as long as he was scraping by as an artist, selling the occasional photograph, peddling his unsolicited plays and manuscripts, doing some magazine work, and getting a few canvases into galleries around town. Now, as a corporate drone, Joao made enough that he could afford his own medications, and he got insurance through work also, which meant he didn't have to pay entirely out of pocket.

But there was a cost to Joao's industry. Joao was a genius who couldn't be stuffed into a cubicle and asked to thrive; to Nuncio's eye, he was looking pale and strained. He'd had the job for about four months now; it was right around the time he'd started the new gig that his phone number had stopped working.

Joao's tendency to change up his residences, phone numbers, and social media outlets was an extension of his own restless nature, but the way he'd dropped out of sight without so much as a ping to share fresh contact information troubled Nuncio. It was long understood between them that Nuncio was by far the more devoted friend, but even so it had always been the case that Joao could be counted on to phone up every week or so, usually late at night, and talk Nuncio's ear off about color theory, or the way tiny hairs in the ear canal vibrated, or how he'd gone home with a random man he'd met in an alley, purely for the thrill of seeing whether or not he would survive the adventure.

When he heard nothing from Joao for a month, Nuncio started putting feelers out. He and Joao had any number of friends in common, but none of them had heard anything from the missing man. Another month went by, then a third; finally, Marco piped up that Joao had phoned him a week or so earlier, out of the blue.

"How did he sound?" Nuncio asked, trying not to sound anxious.

But Marco was too stoned to notice whether Nuncio's worry. "He sounded like his same old self," Marco laughed. "Full of ideas, not so sure how to organize them."

Nuncio asked for Joao's new number. Marco produced his phone, and fumbled his passcode into the device. Then, hands trembling, Marco surrendered the phone and let Nuncio find his own way to his contacts list and Joao's information.

It took three messages before Joao responded to Nuncio, and then it took almost a month before the old friends reconnected. Now here they were, trawling aimlessly, and it felt like old times.

"Goya," Joao was saying. And, "Those girls at the office. They are driving me totally crazy, and I think I am gonna slit my own throat with a letter opener, right there in the break room." And, "Do you suppose Kierkegaard was synesthetic? I get the sense that he could, like, taste colors. There's something in his writing that tells me he scrambled senses together and the world had more dimensions to him."

"Yeah," Nuncio said, distracted by a sterling silver sugar bowl and matching milk decanter. "Say, are you dating anyone just now?"

"Dating?"

"Are you going out, or seeing anybody?"

"Ah, well, nope." Joao sighed.

Nuncio knew better than to wait for him to pick up the thread unprompted. Joao was acting like this was something he didn't want to talk about, but needed to.

Nuncio didn't push, though. He picked up one teacup after the next, examining them for cracks. Finally, he turned one cup over and had a look at the bottom. No good -- it was clearly made in the last decade or so. And now that he inspected the flowers that decorated the cup, Nuncio saw clearly that they were appliques and not hand painted.

"Really? That's no good. A young man needs company," Nuncio said casually. Inside, he felt a rush of heat. He'd watched Joao go through a string of relationships with men who were clearly using him, or at best not really into him. As he watched, Nuncio had the same recurring thought: Why not me? Why doesn't he see how much better I would treat him?

Of course, Nuncio knew the reason was that Joao knew perfectly well how Nuncio felt, and how tender and kind he would be toward Joao if ever they were to pair up together. But Joao had never let things go there -- not remotely. This bad boy just wanted other bad boys... badder, in fact, than he was, himself.

Maybe that would change some day. Nuncio delicately probed the question every few years.

"I'm not even on the site or apps. No SexFindr, no Gingers R Us. I haven't even seen any of my usual fuck buddies in... oh... probably close to a year," Joao said.

Nuncio was startled at how he could have not known this.

"I really don't want any kind of relationship right now," Joao was saying. "It's hard even just going out and having dinner with a friend, or... like now, walking around with you." Joao glanced at him, and he almost looked guilty. "Though thank you for coming after me and dragging me out. It's a lovely day."

It was a lovely day. It was late September, and the air itself seemed golden and benevolent. The sun was sinking, now, and the light growing a little russet in hue.

A shaft of that gorgeous ruddy light was beaming onto a table in the shop's far corner. An antique wooden tray sat there, and on the tray was an elegant English teapot. An assortment of mismatched cups, saucers, and other accessories was scattered around the teapot. Nuncio ignored all the rest of it, and moved toward the teapot, a tingling suddenly surging up and down his spine. Carefully, he picked up the teapot, and gave it his attentive scrutiny.

Joao had found a ceramic elephant with a clock face in its side. He tapped at the clock face and nudged the minute hand with a fingertip.

"Cute," he said, and put the elephant down.

Nuncio finished his cursory examination of the teapot and started to give it a more detailed going over.

"Find something?" Joao asked him.

Yes, Nuncio thought. Yes, but I can't have it.

Aloud he said, "I quite like this piece. I think I'm gonna buy it."

The shop owner was in a lively discussion with an Earth Mother type over a Tiffany lamp. Nuncio and Joao hung back, and browsed a little more.

Joao suddenly picked up the conversation's thread and said, "It's just that I've been out of sorts, and not really feeling like engaging with the world. Marco nags me into going out with him every week or so, but it's not as much fun as it used to be."

"Don't you get lonely?" Nuncio asked.

"I guess I do. But that's not so bad. And what's the point of dating anyway? Or even tricking? The whole poz thing comes up, and when you're with guys who are also poz it's, like, 'Do we have to use rubbers, or can we just sero-sort?' And when you're with someone who's negative, and they ask about your status, it just feels shaming. I mean, I know they don't mean for it to be. They're just protecting themselves. They ought to know if the guy they're about to fuck is poz or not. So I tell them, and half the time they don't want anything more to do with me. And the guys who want to have sex anyway... half of them can't get it up. It's like me disclosing that I'm positive kills their boner."

"So you're not dating because you're poz?" Nuncio said.

Joao looked like he was about to equivocate, but then he smiled ruefully. "Yes," he said. "That's about it."

Nuncio wanted to say that he really, truly didn't care if Joao were poz or not, he knew that Joao was poz and had know it for years, and he'd always loved Joao -- not in spite of, not because, but just because, damn it, he loved Joao.

Then Joao pointed toward the front. "Looks like the great Tiffany Lamp Seminar has come to a conclusion," he said. "And just in time. I've gotta go -- I have a Wiccan rite to get to."

Nuncio looked a question mark at him.

"It's something Marco's taking me to."

***

Later, at home, Nuncio stared at the teapot, feeling empty and dissatisfied. It wasn't buyer's remorse -- he did like the teapot, quite a bit -- but he knew he'd bought it out of a need to patch over an emptiness, a yearning no material thing could fulfill.

Well, the pot was his now, Nuncio thought, and he might as well put it to good use. He put some water on the stove, measured out a couple of teaspoons worth of his favorite Assam loose leaf tea, and clicked together the halves of his infuser ball. The leaves rattled within the sphere of fine wire mesh and Nuncio rolled the infuser across his palm idly, thinking about nothing.

When he poured hot water into the pot, Nuncio was startled to hear a yelp. Looking inside the teapot he saw nothing out of the ordinary; he started once again to add water, and heard a yelp and a curse. Suddenly a cloud of steam rose from the pot's spout and a man appeared. He was wearing a light grey suit with a skinny tie. His short was white and starched stiff. His piercing blue eyes were bright against his olive skin, and his round, bald head shone under the yellow light of the kitchen's bare bulb. A golden earring shone in one ear - the left one, Nuncio noted despite his shock.

"Um..." Nuncio stared, tongue tied and unsure what to make of this apparition.

The nattily dressed man glowered at him, then snapped in what sounded like an accent from somewhere northwards -- Orange County, maybe -- "What the hell is wrong with you, man? You trying to scald me?"

"What the fuck...?!" Nuncio exclaimed fearfully. He took a quick step backwards and ran up against the kitchen counter. A small stack of plates and bowls clattered ominously and a fork took a nosedive into the sink. Reflexively, Nuncio glanced behind him, then he looked back at the stranger in his kitchen. "This cannot be happening!"

"Tell that to my arm. Jesus, dude, I got a blister here!" The natty man was rubbing at a wet spot high on his sleeve, just beneath his shoulder. "This material doesn't take kindly to dousing, by the way, and certainly not with hot water." He snatched up a dishtowel and rubbed some more, with short irritated strokes. "Aw, man. That's gonna ruin my jacket."

Vaguely, Nuncio thought about offering an apology; what came out of him, however, was, "You weren't really in that teapot were you?"

"I was ... until some asshole who will remain nameless started raining down the wrath of boiling tap water on me. What the hell, dude?"

"You're kidding... You're a genie?"

The natty man shot a cross look at him. "Do I look like a 'Jeannie?' Of course not!"

"Um..."

"I'm Frederic!"

"Um... okay... "

"Damn, man, I think I am gonna need some burn cream." The natty man... Frederic... threw the dishtowel onto the counter.

"Sorry," Nuncio said. "But it's not like a lot of, erm, Frederics live in teapots. How was I supposed to know? And aren't you supposed to be living in an old brass oil lamp or something? Not a tea pot?"

"Seriously?" Frederic's scowl deepend. "That is some messed up shit. That's total profiling. Next you'll want three wishes."

"Can I have three wishes?" Nuncio said, suddenly alert to the possibility some truly extraordinary turn of chance.

"Hell no!" Frederic snapped. Nuncio slumped with disappointment. "Three wishes? That's not how we do it these days, man. One wish. You get one single wish."

Nuncio brightened. Then he thought to ask: "What happened to the three wishes?"

"Are you kidding? It was the same damn thing every single time. Some guy gets three wishes and instantly he wants a pile of money, or world peace, or a harem of beautiful women, or immortality... And then he finds out that having whatever it was he wished for creates more problems than it's worth, so he uses his second wish to undo his first wish, and then he ends up with one wish anyhow." Frederic spoke quickly, the words flowing in a single breath. It was like a cork had been pulled. "If all y'all only had one wish to begin with, you might decide to be more careful how you use it," Frederic went on. "So at the last convention, we changed the rules. You can still wish for anything you want, but you only get one wish. One big wish. Think about it carefully though, because you can't undo it... and wishes have consequences."

A perplexed look came over Nuncio's face. "Well, that just doesn't do for me. One wish? Jesus. With inflation I already can't hardly pay my god damn rent. And Toasty Pops only come six to a box these days... six! They used to be eight! And beer? What used to be a six-pack is now a four-fucking-pack. My whole life I've heard stories about magic genies appearing and granting three wishes, and now it's happening, but... I mean, here you are telling me that the most venerable tradition ever has been downsized. You fucking depress me, man, you really do."

This seemed to mollify the irritated Frederic. "Well, now, damn, cuz. I didn't mean to disappoint you and shit... so, I tell you what I'll do," he said. "You can have one and a half wishes."

"What the fuck is a half a wish?" Nuncio snorted. "I make it and it doesn't come true?"

"No, I mean, you can have your one big wish -- that's the wish you make for something to happen or something to have, and that will come true. The other wish, the half a wish, that's not for material possessions or to change anything. You can wish to know anything you want. Who killed Kennedy? Do UFOs really exist? Why do bad things happen to good people? And you can have that knowledge. That's your half a wish."

"Really? ...Why do bad things happen to good people?" Nuncio asked, musingly.

"Is that your half a wish? You want to know that?"

"No. Not really."

"Good man," Frederic said. "Now, what do you want for your one big wish?"

"Only the one?" Nuncio pressed.

"That's right."

"And I can't undo it?"

"That's right."

"So once I make the one big wish, I can never unwish it again?" Nuncio asked, doing his best to cross all the Ts and dot every J.

"What I'm tellin' you, dog!" Frederic burst out, with a flash to his earlier curtness.

Nuncio was undeterred. "Well, what if someone else comes along later and scares you up outta that teapot and they want to unwish my one big wish."

"Dude, that's like, astronomically improbable," Frederic said, sounding more like a valley boy all the time. "It's never gonna happen."

"But it could."

"Naw."

"But in principle, some asshole could come along and unwish my big wish later on, right?" Nuncio insisted.

"Okay, yes, in principle, but people don't think that way. They don't unwish other people's wishes. They want stuff for themselves."

"Someone might want to unwish this wish."

"And how would they even know you made the wish? Huh? It's totally random how I end up granting wishes to people," Frederic told him. "From here on out maybe I don't get pestered by anyone for a century. Maybe I sail to China. Maybe I find my way to Bueno Aires, where a rich matron asks me to transform her purebred Bijon into the man of her dreams... and hey, stranger things have happened," Frederic said defensively, when Nuncio frowned at the Bijon example. "My point is, it's pure chance that I end up where I do."

"It is, is it?"

"Well, usually," Frederic said. "Mostly."

"I'm not sure I wanna know."

"You don't." Frederic said. "I mean, it wouldn't change anything anyway."

"Whatever... Look, the thing is, what I want to wish for, there are people who are fucked up enough and mean enough that yes, someone might want to unwish my one big wish. So maybe I shouldn't even wish for the wish I wish to wish."

"Whoa, now, hold on, what?" Frederic seemed lost.

"Look, I want a guarantee," Nuncio said.

"That would be, like, a second wish."

"No it wouldn't. It's a guarantee. I go buy a new car, there's a guarantee."

"Dude, that's a warranty," Frederic told him.

"Do I get my guarantee or not?"

"You want a guarantee? I am already giving you a half a wish free and clear, and now you want a guarantee on top of that?"

"Just for the one big wish. Not for the little wish," Nuncio specified.

"I dunno, man, it feels like you're taking advantage."

"I am not! I just want a guarantee. What good is having a wish if some fuck-face Joe Neckbone can come along later and undo it?"

Frederic shook his head. "Man, that's part of human life. Like the president, he can do whatever the fuck he wants, but the next president can just swoop in and undo everything."

"That's exactly why I'm telling you I want a guarantee," Nuncio shot back. "If there's gonna be magic, please for God's sake, don't let it be ruined by politics and bureaucracy and whatnot."

Frederic's mouth twisted in a half-smile that was still eighty percent irritation. "And for this reason, you want a guarantee."

"Right."

"Even though a guarantee is, like, the most mundane thing ever and it would de-magic-ize your one big wish anyway."

"No, not this wish," Nuncio said. "It would make this wish really goddamn special."

Frederic sighed. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Dog, okay!" Frederic snapped. "Jesus goddamned Christ!"

"Why?" Nuncio asked.

"What?"

"Why okay? After all the rigmarole? Why all of a sudden okay?"

"You are one suspicious S.O.B.," Frederic muttered.

"Yeah, you get that way around here. So why okay all of a sudden?"

"Because, why not? Because now I really have gotta hear this big wish of yours. You've piqued my curiosity. I'll give you your guarantee: Once you make this wish and it's granted, no one can ever come along later and unwish it."

"You say that, but what about all the other gen... Sorry, what about all the other Frederics?" Nuncio asked, his tone of voice untrusting.

"Man, we're not all named Frederic."

"Whatever you are, what about the rest of you? Will some other teapot tenant undo the wish even if you promise not to?"

"First off," Frederic flared, "we don't all live in brass lamps or English teapots. Some of us live in the free and open air. And one guy I know, he lives in a Thermos. The old fashioned kind with the glass on the inside and the plaid pattern on the outside? I tell him every time I see him, 'Clarence, man, you gotta fine new digs. Some day that Thermos of yours is gonna get dropped and broken, and then where will you be?' It's not like just any vessel is suitable..."

"Look, I hate to interrupt, I'm sure there are all sorts of rules about these things and whatnot, and it's fascinating, but the rugby match starts in twelve minutes and I kind want to wrap this up," Nuncio broke in.

"Okay, look," Frederic said impatiently. "We don't mess with each others' granted wishes. It's not cool. So once I promise you that your wish will never be undone, that's it. Your wish will never be undone. Not me, not anybody else is ever gonna undo your wish."

"Really? So you have a list of excluded wishes?"

"Not exactly, but sort of."

"So I can't really wish for anything I want, because there are some things you have to say no to. Because say I wish for something that cancels out some other guy's wish. You have a taboo about that."

"It's a given that there are things you can't wish for," Frederic said. "Offering the one wish implies all sorts of things like, you can't wish for more wishes. You can't wish to be changed from a human being into one of us so that you can grant wishes to yourself. You can't wish that your wish goes to someone else. And as far as I know, it's never been the case that any two people's wishes ended up being mutually exclusive. But it's possible, I suppose, so if your wish includes a guarantee clause of non-revokability, well, that's just fine. It's never been done before, but it's not like we can't adapt to the times. We're not, like, Constitutional originalists or anything. We live in the modern world, know what I'm saying?"

"Uh... actually, no," Nuncio said. "But we're agreed then? I make my wish, it comes true, and no one can change it back later?"

"That's right."

"And there are no gotchas? No malicious side effects?"

"Not from me," Frederic replied. "That's not how I roll. But it's like I told you: Wishes have consequences. This is the real world, everything has consequences. So whatever happens, happens. It's not my doing if you don't like the outcome."

"Well, okay, fair enough."

"So," Frederic said, his voice suddenly chipper, his hands rubbing together with anticipation, "what's this one big wish of yours?"

"You sure you're ready for it?"

"Dog, don't try my patience."

"Okay... well, here goes." Nuncio took a deep breath. "I want HIV to be eradicated from the world. I want every single poz person to be negative. I don't want one particle of HIV virus left anywhere."

"You want everyone cured?" Frederic asked.

"Yep. That's what I want. And no virus left so that no one is infected ever again."

"Clever wording there, my man. Cure and prevention all in one. Nice."

"And you can do that? That's not a too-big wish for you to handle?"

"It's already done," Frederic said.

"It's done?"

"Already."

"And no one is ever gonna take it back?"

"Evolution is a continuous process, so some day another virus like HIV might come along," Frederic said. "But no, no one is ever going to unwish your big wish. Every single person in the world is now HIV-free. There is not a single HIV virus left anywhere. It's all gone."

"AIDS is at an end?"

"It's ended. Done. Fini. But you do know this is really just the beginning of a lot of other shit that's gonna happen now because of it?"

"I hope so," Nuncio said. "Including exploding heads among all the gay-hating Bible bangers."

"You coulda just asked for that," Frederic pointed out.

"I like the wish I did make a lot better."

"Now, about that half a wish..."

"Yeah, I am gonna need some time for that one," Nuncio said.

"What? You knew right away what you wanted for the one big wish but you don't know what you want for the half-wish?" The half-smile was back on Frederic's lips.

"Life's pretty funny that way."

***

Frderic wasn't wrong about the fallout, though it took a while to happen. Slowly the word started to circulate that men who had been on HIV medications for years didn't need them any more. Half a dozen charlatans tried to take credit when men who had tested positive went back for another test and came up negative. One man declared that his elixir of beet juice, garlic, and honey was the cure; two or three evangelical preachers claimed it was faith and prayer -- claims that withered on the vine when the cured turned out to be having more gay sex than ever.

Weeks went by as the rumor mill ground along. Jubilant stories began to appear on social media, and then the tabloid newsfeeds began reporting on the story. The mainstream media was slow on the uptake, but then Hamilton Draper moderated a round table of cured men and women, some gay and some straight, who all told the same incredible story - only, they were credible individuals professionals. And they had medical certification. Hamilton was visible moved by their testimony, so much so that he turned to the camera and came out right there, on air. With that, a tipping point was hit and it was all over the news programs, the papers, online...

HIV RAPTURE screamed one headline.

END DAYS? GAY PLAGUE RESCINDED an anti-gay Christian website blared.

MYSTERY CURE, one more restrained publication of record announced. 200 MORE CASES OF 'AIDS RAPTURE' CONFIRMED.

Every positive man, woman, and child across the planet rushed to get his or her status checked. It wasn't always easy to make a definitive determination; medications were so good that most people went about their daily lives with no detectable viral load in their bloodstreams. But as more and more people stopped taking their daily doses, and no one tested positive after weeks and then months, a mounting roar of excitement, gratitude, and relief started to swell.

So too did a thunder of rage from the newly cured -- strange at first, in light of the joyous news, but upon reflection the fury of the once-oppressed was inevitable. People who had been pathologized, demonized, abandoned by politicians in the early years of the plague and then ripped off by big pharma for decades began to assert themselves, and assert their conviction that God had finally shown a sign that it was they -- the fags, the queers, the Nancy boys -- who were His chosen.

Things threatened to get ugly. An American preacher and longtime foe of gay equality had to be rushed out of a sports arena in South Africa as he started one of his trademark jeremiads against homosexuality; a fearless crowd of gays, trans men, bi guys, and others besieged the place. A "prayer breakfast" in Washington. D.C. was stormed by bullhorn-wielding activists who shouted scorn and condemnation at the attendees, a collection of primped and powdered blue-bloods who scurried away in a frightened mob like so many rats startled by daylight. Among them were almost two dozen congressmen and a trio of infamous TV preachers, as well as a Supreme Court justice. Not since the days of ACT-UP had gays and their straight allies acted out like this.

The anti-gay contingent tried to muster a similarly impassioned response, but the inexplicable -- some said miraculous -- end of HIV/AIDS took the wind out of their sails.

Scientists remained cautious as the first year passed, expecting reservoirs hidden deep in the bodies of formerly positive patients to provide a newly resurgent wave of positive test results. But that didn't happen. No matter how sensitive the tests, no matter how they were applied or in which nation, no matter how much time went by -- HIV was simply no longer there.

The English teapot sat on Nuncio's sideboard. He never used it, mindful of the fact that the teapot was tenanted. Once in a while Frederic showed himself. These occasions were almost like social calls, though always with reference to Nuncio's One Big Wish.

"Gotta tell ya, dog, I am impressed," Fredric said one day. "All those bible-bangers have lost their mojo."

Nuncio smiled. But there was something else he was waiting for.

"You still got half a wish," Frederic reminded him.

"When the time comes," Nuncio said.

Nuncio hadn't forgotten about the half wish, but he wasn't sure he was going to need it. He hoped he wouldn't, in fact. Now that HIV was gone, Joao was cured just like everyone else was. Nuncio reasoned that there was nothing more stopping Joao from seeking and finding love. He knew that he couldn't wish Joao to fall for him -- he had no big wishes left and even if he had, he would never have done that. But Nuncio remained hopeful that Joao would look up one day, see him, and smile a smile that would link the two of them together and never fade.

If that didn't ever happened, Nuncio figured, that was when he would have a use for his half wish. He was going to want to know the reason why not.

Of course, Joao could always find something to be depressed about. And he was only one example, albeit a particularly pessimistic one; there were plenty of people who had lived with HIV for years who were anything but happy to see it go. Some people had grown accustomed to planning -- or limiting -- their lives around it; without HIV, they were no longer sure what they could, or should, do.

And then there were those who had suffered debilitating side effects from the disease, or the medication, or both; the so-called "HIV Rapture" didn't help those ailments. Some older men who'd lived with HIV for decades and suffered the lasting side effects of the early anti-viral regimens were cured of the disease, but disabled thanks to its ravages on their health over the course of time. They found themselves in a pickle: With the virus gone, the government was preparing to end assistance programs, but they were still genuinely sick and disabled. Would new assistance programs appear to meet their needs? Or would they be abandoned, left to fend for themselves?

Then there was the psychological adjustment. While there was insane joy, there was also profound sadness and disorientation. Some men even spoke longingly of days past when they had found fellowship with others who were also poz. Now that common ground had been taken away, and what did they have in common? Close-knit circles of friendship and support began to fall away. Men complained about their newfound isolation, their no-longer-close cadres.

Reading these stories in the papers, hearing them on the radio, Nuncio began to worry that he'd thrown Joao's life out of balance. Fourteen months after he'd made his One Big Wish, feeling like he'd waited long enough and prepared to tell Joao the whole story about Frederic, Nuncio set out to pay a visit to Joao at home. He thought about bringing the teapot along with him so that he could give it to Joao, and Joao could summon Frederic and make his own Big Wish. If his wish -- like so many men who'd spoken out about the issue -- was to return to the way things had been before, then...

But then Nuncio realized that he'd painted himself into a corner. Joao could never undo the wish that Nuncio had made. Nuncio himself, worried about spiteful religious fanatics who hung their own self esteem on the suffering of others, had made that impossible.

Nuncio worried himself sick all the way across town, from the Tenderloin where he lived to Berkeley, where Joao had recently relocated; from bus to train, and train to bus, and then a half-mile trudge through gathering gloom under gray skies. The day was chilly, and Nuncio pulled his hood up over his head. Would Joao hate him for the wish he'd made? Did he somehow know about it? Had he guessed? Was that why he'd been out of touch for the last six weeks?

And then, as he approached the building where Joao lived, Nuncio understood in a flash. There was a park across from Joao's apartment complex; two men were frolicking, pursuing each other the cold twilight and laughing. Their chase wound through hedges and around litter bins, some for paper and some for plastic and others for glass. They chased each other between a scattering of playground installations, leaping over see-saws and darting between swings. Nuncio paused to watch them. The couple's chase slowed down and finally the two men were locked in an embrace. A passionate kiss followed.

Drawing nearer, Nuncio realized all at once that the two men were Joao... and Marco!

Just then, Joao looked his way. Nuncio froze, thinking that Joao was going to recognize him. But the light had grown dim, and Nuncio's hood kept his face in shadow; and anyway, Joao was too wrapped up in Marco to see him. The snogfest ended as the two started wrestling and tickling, and then they sprang apart and the chase resumed.

Their laughter at his back, Nuncio turned and slowly trudged the way he'd come. The wind kicked up, colder than before. Nuncio gathered the edges of his jacket closer to his neck. The evening air grew blue, aching blue, as the winter night came on.

For Jimmy