He’d call at one, two, sometimes three in the morning, begging me to jump on a plane to London, Hong Kong, sometimes as close as California, all expenses paid of course. And I would, begrudgingly, decline, keep myself wrapped tight in my covers, and dream about what would happen if I ever did pick up the ticket waiting at the airport.
One night he called and he begged. He begged more than usual. He was in London, and there it was almost three in the morning. Here it was a cold, raining, eleven o’clock.

By the time I got there you’d be sleeping. So? You wouldn’t fly across the Atlantic to sleep next to me? I can sleep here. We can order room service and watch indie English movies. You never understand how bad English food is until you order it in a $4,000 hotel room.

He took my silence as speechlessness.