“I wish I knew, Sheila,” I said, stroking her. “I’m as much in the dark about all of this as you are. All I know is what I read in his book.”
“Book?” said Sheila.
“It explains a lot, don’t you think?”
“His PhD thesis? Transindividuality in Spinoza?”
I shook my head. “Come on, Sheila.”
“I’m sorry, but what book?”
“The book.”
She looked blankly at me.
“Coffee, Black.”
Her blank stare deepened.
“Sheila, for God’s sake!”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She looked alarmed, frightened.
“My God. He never told you?”
“Told me what? What book? What are saying?”
“Wait,” I said. I went into my bedroom, got my still unfinished, heavily dog-eared copy of Coffee, Black, returned with it. I handed it to her. She stared uncomprehendingly at the cover.
She shook her
