WHAT THE INTERNET KNOWS
I couldn't sleep that night.
I lay in the dark and I thought about him across the desk at four fifteen saying *good* in the flat register and going back into his office and I thought about the east wing version of that same word — the same flat honest acknowledgment of a thing done correctly, said then in a kitchen about pasta dough and said today about a calendar reorganization — and the sameness of it across six years and an illness and everything Eleanor had ordered was the thing I couldn't put down.
He was the same person.
Underneath whatever had happened in six years, the fundamental person was the same.
I didn't understand it.
I needed to understand it.
I got up.
The kitchen at two in the morning.
My laptop is on the table, the screen brightness is t
