I prop the phone between my shoulder and my ear, half listening while I get back to work re-renaming the dickhead boat, waiting for an important detail to emerge from Jason’s monologue. I think he thinks that voicemail is like old-fashioned answering machines, the kind that would click on and play aloud in the room, giving the other person time to race to the landline and pick up. It’s a cell phone. Where does he think I’m not?

I text back a reply answering the questions I picked out from his white noise of “ums” and “ahs.” “Finish work at 6. Pick me up at Mrs. T’s. Happy to help finish up your rounds. Will be fun.”

* * *

Quitting time. I’ve done a lot today; I’m getting faster. I could finish this in my lifetime, maybe even in hers. I have a notebook where I jot down what I’ve done that day and where I’ve stopped. It’s a pain in the ass if I lose my place, and the log also helps Mrs. Tyburn feel like she’s keeping an eye on what I’m doing, like otherwise I might sit up here jerking off all day. I take the external hard drive and make sure everything’s backed up. I shut down, spray the keyboard, wipe the screen, push in my chair, and take my teacup with me. It’s like no one’s been here.

I find Mrs. Tyburn in the living room. There’s some kind of jazzy piano music on. It must be old. Sounds like a CD of a really scratchy recording. She’s drinking a martini, which is probably one of the top five sexiest things people can do. I make a mental note to develop a taste for them.

“Finished for the day, my dear?” She looks at her watch and smiles at me. I wish it was easier to read her face. The clock on the mantelpiece says it’s just after six.

“Yeah, I got to a good stopping point. I’ve marked the logbook and—”

Just then the doorbell rings.

“Gentleman caller?”

I don’t really know what to say, so I end up spitting out something stupid like, “Kinda . . . Jason.” But she knew that. Who else would it be?

“First Friday already? Oh, how one’s mind goes all to dots.”

I laugh with her even though I’m not sure I get the joke. Maybe I’m supposed to disagree, tell her she’s sharp as hell, that she’s got the mind of a teenage Einstein and a fantastic rack to boot, but I’m tired and I don’t want to play games with Geriatric Barbie. I just want to get out of here. But she has to keep talking.

“Funny that you should be the one with a regular visitor.”