It’s now been a little while since Harry has seen Loudermilk. Loudermilk did not show up for his regular poetry pickup, and since that day, which was approximately three days ago—although Harry barely keeps track of the day of the week, much less the date—there’s been nothing, not a crudely misspelled note slipped under his door by one of his housemates/employers, nary an email nor a distant sighting. The line has gone dead. Not to mention that Harry now has a couple of poems standing by.

Today, which is probably a Friday, which Harry could find out for sure if he went outside and looked at a newspaper, already feels pretty long. The hours are growing and it is nearly noon. A calm light is making an appearance in the backyard and in the tops of the twin pines. Harry is deliberating about maybe paying a visit to the shack. He’s trying to imagine the likely conversation:

Harry: [greets Loudermilk]

Loudermilk: [unlatching multiple bimbos from his virile person, wiping whipped cream and cherry lube from face and chest] The fuck you want, dude?

Harry: [incoherent mumbling regarding poems]

Loudermilk: Excuse me?

Harry: [further incoherent mumbling]

Loudermilk: Dude, did I not tell you not to interrupt me in the middle of my existence that is so infinitely better than yours? It irritates me when you appear here, reminding me of the fact that I’m somewhat dependent on you for my lifestyle.

Harry: [silence]

Loudermilk: I take it I did not make myself clear. Kindly leave?

Harry: [something about how he does not know where else to go]

Loudermilk: [suddenly able to understand what Harry says] But, Harrison, is that my problem, that you don’t know where else to go? I can’t be responsible for everything that’s wrong with you. I’m not, you know, you. Not in reality. I’ve been helping, I’ve been over here helping and being an altruist, you know, but let’s not take things too far. There comes a time when even the closest friendships have to end, and I know I’ve been pretty damn patient with you, pretty damn giving, if I do say so myself. So this is hurting me more than it hurts you. I’m just going to come right out here and say it: It’s over between us. I don’t need your poems anymore.

This imaginary conversation stands forth in Harry’s mind. It’s prominent and it gleams. It’s very clear and hard for Harry to avoid. It’s possibly constructed from finely etched crystal. It emits a high-pitched noise.

Thus there is no point in going over and talking to Loudermilk because Loudermilk is just going to formalize whatever break Harry believes has already taken place at some misty, symbolic level. Loudermilk will repay Harry’s curiosity by making something currently uncertain into something very determined and very, very real.