“Say, can you do me a favor?” His baritone voice strains for a high, wheedling note.
“What?” I say, as usual, knowing how it pisses him off.
He huffs. “Don’t say ‘what’; just say yes.”

A hundred, a thousand, phone conversations, starting all the same.

Also, like this: “Here, I want to read you something.”

Viator, “Abimagique,” “Jailwise,” “Radiant Green Star,” “Aztechs” (“What would be a good Spanish word for a fence made of lasers?” “How about ‘El Rayo,’ the lightning.” “Yeah, that’s good”), Handbook of American Prayer, “Halloween Town,” “The Velt,” “Vacancy,” Softspoken, Floater. Movie reviews, essays. Crap, all of them, everything.

He asks, “What do you think?”
“Very nice.”
“I am like unto a god.”

March 21. Two weeks without a call, a new record. Of course, the first few days are generally a relief. Then you begin to wonder what’s up. Then you start to worry a bit.

Then you start to miss him.