Silence.

“Oh, come on, Howie. That’s not funny.” If there were listeners on the line, as I had to assume, I hoped they got a laugh out of it.

Howie had a guy who had some kind of whoop-de-do device that detected electronic bugs. He’d get him over to my apartment first thing. “I never thought I’d say this in real life,” he told me, “but be careful. There’re a lot of crazies out there, and you’ve made some enemies.”

“That’s okay,” I responded, “I never thought I’d get to tell someone my apartment had been tossed.”

Jenny was in an Uber on her way over when I reached her. “Guess what,” I said, “they tossed my apartment.”

“They what? Who did what?”

Jeez, some women can take all the fun out of a home invasion. Rather than meeting at the apartment, we met at Uri’s Portable Chef, a restaurant and delivery service known for its deliciously healthy home-style cooking. (And no, this is not a paid testimonial, although if Uri wants to send some of his Filipino chicken adobo up here no one would turn it down. Wink, wink.) She was carving our initials into the construction timber tabletop with a knife provided for that purpose when I got there. She greeted me by blowing wood chips onto my lap. “Very mature,” I said.

Over the organic chicken I told her about my visitors. Yes, I was sure. No, I wasn’t going to call the police. “What am I going to tell them? Somebody moved my cheese?” And finally, it probably wasn’t a great idea for her to stay there with me that night. “Bedbugs,” I said, admiring my own cleverness. If the place had been wired, I didn’t want her on tape.

I had Van, so I dropped her off. When I got settled, I called to make sure she was okay. Actually, to make sure we were okay. As we started to hang up, I blurted, “Hey, Jen…”

“What?” I was silent. “What?” she repeated with a hint of irritation.

“I mean, you were kidding, right? You know how I feel about you, don’t you?”

She wasn’t going to make it easy for me. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not so sure.”

I took a deep breath and almost went for it: “I really care a lot about you. I mean, a whole lot.”

That probably wasn’t what she was hoping to hear, but it was a step. “Me too,” she responded.

When I went to bed that night, I left a lamp on in the living room. I also took the shade off my bedside lamp; if someone came into the bedroom, I could turn it on and the bare bulb would briefly blind them. And then I took my pistol from its secure place, checked to make sure it was loaded, the safety was on, and a bullet was chambered. I slipped it under my pillow.

I lay in bed with my eyes closed, but there was no way I was going to sleep. It wasn’t fear—I still could handle whatever came my way. But man, it had been a long time since I’d been so lonely. Why couldn’t I tell her that I loved her? I wondered. What the fuck was wrong with me?