I called for a very particular reason, but my concerns get stuck in my throat.

“So what’s up, man?” he asks. “Did I run out on my bill or something?”

“Don’t be a jerk. I called to say thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, sure. You’re welcome.”

“Thought maybe you’d want to grab a drink after work. We hardly got a chance to catch up at that thing.”

“Tonight?”

“If you’re free.”

“You in the neighborhood or something?”

“No, but I could be in”—I check my watch: four o’clock; traffic is a gamble, but I feel like gambling, so—“an hour fifteen.”

“Real thirsty, aren’t you?”

I don’t reply.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Bar None at five thirty?”

I do the math. We’d get half an hour, maybe an hour, to hang. Even if there’s traffic, I’ll still be back well before eight, just in time for fish and rosé. “That’ll work.”

“I can’t stay long. Bianca’s got some field hockey thing at six thirty, just a scrimmage, but I promised I’d go.” He pauses before asking, “You okay, Bobby?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“All right,” he repeats. “See you then.”

I exit the Citarella parking lot and head south, passing through Bridgehampton, driving into sun glare as I merge onto Sunrise Highway. Strange how time doesn’t translate from city to space. In the city, I’d think nothing of budgeting an hour to hop from place to place. Manhattan is only thirteen miles long, two miles wide. The length of its hour is proportionate to its distance. This sixty-mile drive from Bridgehampton to West Babylon, while still only an hour, is a trip, not a night out.

The trip is worth taking this evening, and the drive is especially easy. No traffic, which is unusual. No construction. No complaints. When I get off on Livingston Avenue, I’m a little early, so because it’s right here, right in front of me, I turn directly into North Babylon Cemetery and pull up to a spot alongside the service road. The perspective is achingly familiar, although I haven’t visited in almost a decade. The shape of the shade below the trees has hardly changed. My mother’s tombstone stands tall between a pair of dwarf spruce invaded by Virginia creeper. The granite shines. Nobody brings flowers to her grave.