Harry is having better days these days than he has in a long time. It may have something to do with the solitude. Or maybe it has something to do with the contrast between the new solitude and what he can recall now of the minor hell that was the experience of living constantly in Loudermilk’s shadow.

Loudermilk’s shadow was long and reeked of stale semen.

Which is why Harry’s metaphorical soul descends drearily into the literal soles of his Converse when Loudermilk’s face abruptly appears in his window this unseasonably warm March afternoon, interrupting Harry’s view of the two pines.

Harry’s first instinct is to ignore his best friend/fiend, but given that they are several stories up in the air and that Loudermilk is furiously tapping on the none-too-stable window five inches from the end of Harry’s nose, Harry is obliged to respond. He raises the pane and Loudermilk clambers in.

Loudermilk wastes no time. “I’m none too pleased, Harrison,” he says.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Whatever.” Loudermilk has no time for pleasantries. Then, “You’ve never actually been in a relationship so I won’t dazzle you with details but something very unusual has taken place and you and I, Harrison, we need to chat about it.”

Harry is not sure what to say. The afternoon had seemed to be going so well. Now it is Loudermilk’s property.

“I hope you’re not sighing at me!”

Harry stares hard at the blue industrial carpeting of his attic floor.

“I came here to let your numb ass know that we are having a problem. And that problem has to do with your writing, Harry. Because I’m starting to get the feeling that people are beginning to believe that it doesn’t come from me and that, as you know, is not really going to fly around here, here in the land of the author-as-hero. We are getting into some serious T-minus-one dookie.”

Harry shifts his eyeballs a few inches to the right. There’s an interesting snag in the carpet. The window is open and unseasonable birdsong wafts in along a gentle, earth-scented chill.

Loudermilk presses his lips together. “And it’s these females,” Loudermilk says. “That’s where all this weakness is coming from. Marta thinks she controls me, and meanwhile turns out her daughter won’t leave me alone, even though I’ve told that crazy little dick-straddler a million times desperate estrus is only hot for so long. It’s like it makes that head case happy to see somebody playing the game like this! But not Marta. This delusional tease isn’t finding me convenient enough for the next dynasty of her poetry popedom. She needs someone she can ‘mold’ or whatever, like the world’s most genius zombie. And these poems are getting too good—”

Harry raises his hand. “I’m confused. Does this lady not lap milk out of saucers or something?”