Thirty
Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major
I throw Rupert a text on our way out of downtown, but he doesn’t respond. It’s still early—just after eight—and I know he’s usually up late working. He’s prone to reminding me how lazy I am for needing eight or more hours of sleep when he is “perfectly fine” with five due to his “vigorous constitution and commitment to a personal wellness regimen consisting of regular exercise and a diet free of sugar, alcohol, and processed foods,” thank you very much.
We arrive at my place, unload dog and dog food and the picnic basket carrying some poor soul’s arm bones, and still no response. Number Two doesn’t answer my call either, though from my porch, I can see his place across the adjoining grassy field—the interior lights are on, his Tesla is plugged in,
