Britannia, NY

When Mike gets home, the phone is ringing--Gary answers it a moment later (he looks better to-day than somedays; he's shaved and washed and dressed in clean clothes, which doesn't always happen, and although there's some paint down the front of his shirt it's fresh (dark blue and a spatter of gold, like a lone piece of starry sky printed on his chest); and his eyes are bright and coherent for once, uncloudy) (the studio door was unlocked to-day, he didn't feel the need to protect himself, and he bought groceries some time during the afternoon. the kitchen table is set for them and dinner is cold in the oven).

"Hey," he says, looking up, cupping one hand over the mouthpiece. "It's for you. You want me to tell him you're out?"