First, let me correct Kirkus's factual errors: Timothy and Dominic have been friends only since their college days at Berkeley in the early 1970s; except for Dominic, whose has family money, all of the characters work (Timothy is a portrait photographer, Jasper owns an import company, Abigail is a medical writer, etc.); and the novel contains just one, rather brief, explicit sex scene, in a side street in Paris. Also, when the book opens, Jasper has been dead for some time.
As Timothy remembers his 18 years with Jasper, during a long evening with Dominic in LA, the reader discovers a beautiful, accurate portrait of gay relationships during the 1970s and the early plague years (though not once does the word gay appear). Some scenes are unbearably moving, as when Timothy and Jasper sit on a stone jetty in Provincetown looking at the night sky, and Timothy realizes that life has, at certain moments, given him nearly all he has dared to hope for. AIDS appears as an almost metaphorical presence, less an unspeakable tragedy than an interloper that forces Timothy to assess the exact nature of his life with Jasper. The reader sees the unequal love between these two men as the focus of the book, so their eventual illness conveys pathos rather than the usual cloying self-pity.
I recommend this novel to anyone who wonders about that unique time between the paranoid post-war years and this era of discourse about marriage, polyamory, monogamy, adoption, ghettoes, guppies, circuits, dysfunctional families, barebacking, substance abuse, body fascism, etc., etc. (An aside: Coe has about as much in common with Gary Indiana--an excellent writer with a surreal, blackly comic vision--as, say, Agatha Christie with Andrew Vachss; not much.)