He calls at ten the next morning.
Not a text. A call. Which means whatever he wants
to say he’s decided needs a voice behind it.
I answer on the second ring.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.” I’m already in my studio, coffee
in hand, having spent approximately forty five
minutes pretending to work while actually just
waiting for this. “You said properly.”
“I did.”
“So.”
A pause. The kind he takes when he’s deciding not
how to say something but whether to say all of it
or just the part he’s ready for.
“Can I come over,” he says.
“Yes.”
-----
He arrives twenty minutes later with two coffees
from the good place, not the office place, which
means he planned this on the way, which means he
was thinking about it, which means I was right to
spend forty five minutes pre
