THIRTY-FOUR
By the time I get the phone call, I’m deep into a third glass of wine, a second bag of almond biscotti, and a hopelessness I suspect is soon to become the defining characteristic of my personality.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Now isn’t a good time, Brad.” I stuff another biscotti in my mouth and chomp loudly into the phone. Serves him right for calling in the middle of my breakdown.
“What’s wrong? You sound weird.”
“It’s nothing much. Just an existential crisis that will undoubtedly leave some major scars on my heart, my psyche, and my ability to successfully interact with the rest of the human race.”
“Good luck with that. What’re you eating? It sounds good.”
“You’re as empathetic as a dirt clod,” I say without heat.
“Sorry. Do you wanna talk about it?”
“I’d rather have
