ABSTRACT
I wish I could remember his name. I wish I had a clue. Maybe I would like to look him up, see what he looks like, now, at age thirtynine. He probably has an admirable wife, two admirable children (fourteen and nine), and an admirable house with crushed stone on the driveway and gold lamé threads in the sofa, paintings by the Keenes on the walls. He probably can’t even remember my name.
