But he doesn’t. He stands close by, hovering, wringing his hands. I just know he is wondering what to say next, how to keep me engaged. I bet he thinks if he can do that long enough, more formal help will arrive, and the burden will be off him. Or at least he will have back-up.
He wants—I just know it—to be my savior.
Why couldn’t you have wanted that? I gave you plenty of opportunities.
* * * *
As promised, you came back to town two weeks later. But I would not go so far as to say that you were a man of your word. Because even though you did come back, you never bothered to inform me of that fact.
No, I had to find that out for myself. And I had to find it out just like anyone else in Seattle who picked up The Strangerweekly newspaper and saw the ad for your band buried in the back pages.