Later that night, when I'm separating the recycling (metal, glass, plastic in one clear blue bag, paper and cardboard in another) I cringe a little at having dominated the conversation like that.
"You know," I say to Katie as she brushes her teeth before bed, "it's like this: the writer is the guy who, when somebody asks how his work is going, has the bad manners to actually tell them."
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One year ago: Invisible
Two years ago: Sick Day
Three years ago: All You Had To Do Was Ask
Four years ago: Nice While It Lasted
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