I knock on his door on a Sunday morning.
Arlo is with me because Arlo is always with me on Sunday mornings and because Felix has been giving him cheese which means Arlo considers the fourth floor a satellite territory of our apartment.
Felix opens the door in a different suit jacket over different pyjama bottoms which tells me this is his standard Sunday configuration and I respect the consistency.
He looks at me.
Then at Arlo.
Then back at me with the expression of a man recalculating the nature of the visit.
"Come in," he says.
His apartment is extraordinary.
Not decorated exactly. Accumulated. Books everywhere, actual everywhere, stacked on shelves and beside chairs and on the kitchen counter alongside what appears to be sheet music and a half eaten piece of to
