“Mark sent it. There’s one for each of us, to make work easier—emailing and stuff.” He didn’t mention the GWGW accessories in the office.

“To make work more ever-present,” she said, handing it back. “If that’s even possible.”

“We’ll have time soon,” he said. “Just us. I promise.”

“I should go. I want to write something before bed, and I’m getting tired. But we can take another walk tomorrow?”

So that’s how it would be, he thought: a rewinding, a return to the courtship they should have had. He could do that. He knew all about romance: it was just a story, after all, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. He and Marianne, they were back to the beginning.

8

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Dear RUTH

(Darryl, this is an email between sisters, so please give Ruth some privacy. Thank you for understanding!)

It is really kind of absurd that you share an email address with Darryl. You should get your own—you had one in high school, remember? [email protected]? When I type someone’s address that starts with S into my email, that one still comes up.

Anyway, I’ve already started off on the wrong foot, which is becoming a pattern for me. I guess I could go back and delete all of that, but I want you to see: I recognize that I’m being a jerk. The school I would have told you all about at Christmas, if you’d had more time (or Thanksgiving, when you were invited to see it for yourself), is in full swing and I am beat—look, two clichés in a single paragraph, “wrong foot” and “full swing.” But what are clichés if not tired metaphors? That’s the only kind I have to offer right now, I’m afraid.

It’s a school for inspirational writing. Dad says he told you about it. I know writing wasn’t your favorite subject—you were better at reports, projects, being in charge of a presentation. But I still think you would like it here, Ruth. Being with our students reminds me a little of going to events at your church—all these middle-aged, earnest people, everybody so community-minded. At the opening-night gathering, people didn’t just stand there waiting for their beverages to be refilled (well, I guess some did)—they actually went on ice runs for me without being asked. At NYU, that never would have happened on the first night. We all would have been too busy checking our own reflections in the available shiny surfaces, or thinking about what pretensions to lead our conversations with.