The man strutted back and forth across the stage, his eyebrows knitted in apparent intense concentration. He was much smaller than I'd imagined when I'd let myself get talked into coming to this little charade. His thin, blondish hair was carefully combed back from his forehead, and I couldn't help picturing a gust of wind flipping it over his eyes, exposing a spotted scalp. Unfortunately for me, the auditorium was stuffy and still, and he was wearing one of those Madonna-style microphones that held down his comb-over. He turned abruptly, spinning on the ball of his foot like a dancer and facing the audience for the first time.

"My name is Mickey King, and I have one word for you to remember. Agency. Become the agent of change in your life." He made his pronouncement in a voice that was much more masculine than I'd imagined. It was a warm, full baritone, one of those voices that - in theory - inspired trust and love. I glanced at Chad, who was leaning forward in his seat hanging on Mickey King's every banal syllable. I groaned and slouched in the hard little auditorium chair. Chad shot me a look of disappointment and anger.

"Give him a chance already," he hissed. "You need to listen to what he's saying. For you, for your own good." He paused and gave me a look that I'm sure was supposed to be full of meaning. "For us."

I'd started finding Mickey King materials placed strategically around the apartment about two weeks ago. I tried playing the queer-eye queen - "You know, honey, these cassette tapes are just so clashing with our fabulous Grateful Dead tapestry" - but Chad had just rolled his eyes pityingly. Perhaps it was that I was calling a tie-dyed bedsheet with multi-colored dancing teddy bears on it a "tapestry." It kind of shot my credibility all to hell.

I'd managed to ignore the not-so-subtle hints until three nights ago, when Chad had taken a joint out of my fingers and, instead of taking a hit, he'd stubbed it out and mixed the little bit of weed in with the cigarette ash and then poured my Diet Coke with Lime into the ashtray, making a gray, sticky paste.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Henry, we need to talk." Chad pulled the rocking chair in front of me and we looked at each other across the coffee table. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands together as if he were praying.

I threw myself against the back of my couch, like a ten-year-old who's just been told he can't have any more Pokemon cards or whatever the fuck the little brats collect now. The difference was, I knew I was acting like a brat, but I was being provoked, and Chad should not have taken away my joint.

"Are you listening to me?" Chad asked, not demanding, just curious. I hadn't realized he was still talking.

"No," I replied. No point in lying about it.

"Well listen now. Henry, we're done. I can't support you and your drugs and your booze and your clubbing and your half-finished novel or whatever that pile of wadded up paper in the guest room is anymore. You're going to have to learn to live on your own. You need agency."

"Chad, baby, what are you talking about? I have an agent, and she says that book is going to make us millions. You just have to stick it out for another year, two years tops. I've just got to work out a few details and then it'll all come together, and we'll hit Oprah's bookclub, and I'll give all the credit to my long-suffering boyfriend." I imagined the housewives watching Oprah getting off on two very pretty boys making out on Oprah's stage.

"Henry. Enough. I can't do this anymore. I've tried to be gentle, I've tried to get you to read Mickey King and maybe to apply some of that stuff to your life, but you just sit here, smoking weed and pretending to be a writer. Now it's time for me to make my intentions manifest" Chad had tears - actual, legitimate tears - in his eyes. I tried to be sympathetic, but well, I was starting to panic. And to laugh.

"Chad, love, we've been together for four years -"

"Four and a half years," he interrupted, sniffling.

"Four and a half years, you're right." I leaned forward and put my hand on his knee, massaging it gently and slowly working my way up his inner thigh as far as I could reach. He slid back into the chair another inch. "We don't want to just throw this all away. Our history, our, well, our apartment, our stuff. I know that my plans are taking longer than we'd hoped, but we're doing okay, right? We still love each other."

"I feel," he began, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I feel that I'm supporting a life for you that isn't healthy for either of us."

I hated this therapy speak, this not wanting to place blame. If Chad had just said, "Get off your lazy ass and do something already," we could've just had a fight and everything would've blown over and gone back to normal. That was a pattern I'd rather enjoyed. But no. He had to do this I feel bullshit that makes me crazy.

"Well, I feel," I responded, not even trying to keep from sounding disdainful.

Chad held up his hand. "No, Henry, let me finish. You have no agency of your own, and with agency, you can create a life for yourself that exceeds your potential. You can accomplish your goals and live fully actuated."

"Lolwhat?" I said, trying unsuccessfully to stop laughing. "I can't exceed my potential. That's the fucking definition of potential - that's all I got." Chad chin quivered again, and he stared at his feet. "C'mon, Chad, I was just joking. I get what you mean. Tell me what I can do to make it all better for you." I'd have probably been more convincing if I hadn't been smirking. I blamed the pot.

"I love you," he said. "And I'll give you one more chance to develop your personal accountability. I have tickets for us to participate in a Mickey King workshop in a couple of days. It's designed for making couples stronger. If you promise me you'll go and genuinely give his techniques a chance, we might be able to manifest our desires and wake up to our life's purposes. Together."

"Is it really taking personal accountability or whatever-the-fuck if I let you blackmail me into going to see this fruitcake?" Why couldn't I just shut up for once?

"Henry, please. When you are dismissive of people who are important to me, it makes me feel sad."

"Well, Chad, I don't want to make you sad." I scrounged in my pocket and started rolling another joint. "So don't worry, I'll be there." I took a deep drag and handed him the joint with what I hoped was a sincere and meaningful gaze. He looked at it for a moment before taking a hit. I idly thought about leaning across the coffee table and unzipping his pants, but I fell asleep instead.

"Intentions are powerful," Mickey King was saying, "but intentions aren't worth the paper they're printed on without agency." I wished I'd taken that Xanax before coming here, but Chad would've known I was high, and that would've probably killed the deal. I really didn't want to start looking for a new apartment. I squirmed in my chair, trying to find a position that relieved the pressure on my bladder. I needed to piss, and I really, really needed a cigarette. I wondered if Chad would think I wasn't actualizing my potential if I got up and took a 10-minute break. I risked looking over at him and he was still leaning forward, enraptured.

"Bathroom break," I whispered at him.

He didn't move. "Come right back. Please."

No smoke break, I decided. Chad would give me hell if I came back smelling like smoke, and it wasn't worth the risk. I could wait a few more minutes anyway. The stupid thing couldn't take too much longer. After all, how many different ways could this dude say the same fucking things?

When I got back, the audience was applauding enthusiastically. "What did I miss?" I asked, trying to convince myself that I actually cared.

"It's intermission," Chad told me. "Come on, let's go see if I can get my book signed. After the interactive part, it's going to be a madhouse."

Interactive part? Chad hadn't mentioned anything about any interactive part.

"Can I grab a smoke first?"

"No, you can get one after. Let's hurry." My lungs twisted at the delay, and now I couldn't even use the bathroom excuse to sneak outside. We got to the front of the stage, where Mickey King's table was set up, pyramids of books and cassettes surrounding him. I shifted back and forth as we stood in line, chewing on my tongue and fiddling with the keys and cell phone in my pockets.

Finally, it was our turn, and I bit my cheek to keep from laughing at the headset crease in his combover. "Hello, friends!" Mickey King cried. His non-magnified voice was flimsier and less compelling than it had been on stage, but Chad still acted like a simpering fanboy. "Thank you for beginning your journey to greatness through agency with me."

"Oh, thank you for being here, Mr. King," Chad said. "My partner and I are really hoping this is the beginning of a new life of health and determination for us. When you discuss ways to become more deliberate in seeking our path to agency, it makes me feel glad."

I rolled my eyes and compulsively opened and closed the tiny blade on my Swiss army knife. Mickey King beamed at Chad and then turned to me. "Should I sign the book to the both of you, then?" I shrugged. "Oh, come now," he continued. "The first step to agency is asking for what you want."

"What I want," I said, opening the blade again, "is an ending for my book. Do you have that?"

"If you follow my course - and we'll practice these techniques in a few minutes - then you'll have everything you ever desired." He paused and licked his lips. "Agency. That's what it's all about."

Agency. I took the knife from my pocket and drove it into the side of his neck, ripping raggedly through the skin and along his carotid or jugular or whatever that vein or artery or whatever is. The blood spurted over my hand, and I was fascinated. It was even better than being on acid. So vibrant. So colorful. So warm. Mickey King's eyes were bulging and blood gurgled from his mouth and dripped off of his chin. I turned to Chad, "Agency. He's right, you know. I feel like a new man already."