“I apologize, but I think this is for the best. It’s not as if I’m single either, you know.” It was reassuring to bring Russell into the conversation in some form, especially since they hadn’t spoken in five days and their last conversation had ended on a sour note. There was a knock on Desmond’s office door. “Who is it?” he called out.

“Ee rolovel.”

“Come in, Roger,” he said, happy for a legitimate distraction. “I’ll be right with you. Take a seat.”

“Yayaya. Dolemmeinerup.”

“I have a student here,” Desmond said, “so I should be hanging up.”

“I guess you should. I didn’t mean to snap at you before, it’s just that there’s a lot going on in my life right now, and it’s all starting to get a little overwhelming. But don’t worry, I won’t call again.”

“Maybe when the baby comes, you’ll fall in love with it, and everything will fit back into place.” Desmond didn’t believe it for a minute, but it was the generous and encouraging thing to say. Desmond thought he’d handled the whole call pretty well. Everything had been done with clean efficiency and without ambiguity. Maybe those sugar pills he was taking for Ambivalence had finally kicked in. It was discouraging to think he’d lost his ability to have meaningless sexual affairs, but nice to see he still knew how to end them. “Job well done,” he said aloud.

“Yayayaya. Thanyaverymuss.”

Roger Lovell. He’d forgotten about him. He was nervously fidgeting in the chair across from Desmond, grinning, adjusting his big, insect-eye glasses. Now that the weather had turned a bit cooler, he’d layered a few baggy, long-sleeved T-shirts under his usual outer layer, making him look more like a restless scarecrow than ever. Even if he hadn’t been trying to get Brian off the phone, Desmond would have been happy to see Roger. Roger had taken Desmond’s suggestion for writing more about his brother, and last week, he’d turned in a ten-page story about helping his younger sibling regain the confidence to climb trees after having fallen out of one and broken his arm. It was the most charming and sensitively written piece of Creative Nonfiction the class had yet produced.

“Yes, well, job well done, Roger. I’m proud of you, I really am.” Desmond reached out and shook the boy’s hand, a surprisingly cold thing considering how much time he spent clasping it and rolling it around. “It’s simple, clear, full of emotion, no histrionics.” He nodded toward Roger’s beat-up vinyl briefcase. “How were the written comments from the other students?”

“Kina fusing.”

“Confusing?”

“Kinda, yayayaya.”

“In what way?”