Michael loves to tell me secrets. They start small — fractious ideas he wants to discipline or expel. The first time it was late, at a party, with unsubtle hints at his various infidelities. Then a conversation, over coffee, about the weekly emails he exchanges with a minor Russian princess. The emails are strictly platonic, he says. His friends do not know about the princess, nor does his wife. He talks about her, his wife, often; they haven’t had sex for almost a year.
Michael loves to tell me secrets. He says I’m a good listener; he says I’m very discreet.