Henry has, for as long as he can remember, utterly and completely lost his ability to function around obscenely beautiful men. (“You do understand that by any reasonable measure you yourself are one of these ‘obscenely beautiful men’, don’t you, Hazza?” Pez had said when Henry had been despairing this particular trait of his. “I’d like to think the revolving door of eager gentleman callers in and out of our flat would have clued you in, if nothing else.” “That may well be,” Henry had replied firmly, because while his list of neuroses is both long and complex, none of them are related to his own attractiveness, “but as I have no desire to have sex with myself—beyond the obvious—I fail to see how that’s relevant.”  “You wouldn’t fuck your clone?” This had, apparently, been a position Pez could not allow to stand, and the conversation had devolved fairly quickly from there.) The point is, Henry knows who and what he is. So when he rushes through from the back room at the chime of the bell over the door just in time to bear witness to the most attractive man he has ever been within twenty feet of pulling his hat off his head and shaking out his curls as though he’s in some sort of Herbal Essences commercial, and promptly drops an entire tray of brownies onto the floor, it’s not exactly surprising. It is, however, deeply inconvenient.