Ray could feel a little weight come off when Miller said he thought so, too. They were on a good track. He smiled at that, out at the dark that seemed it would never ever end, stretching out in front of them. "I'm attached. That's my feeling. If you went someplace, I'd be really torn up about it. Or if we stopped doing this. I don't want to stop doing this," he told him.
He glanced over, taking second-long snips of Miller's profile whenever he could.
"I want to know about your feelings," he added. "If I've got to muddle through stammering about mine to hear yours, it'll be worth it." Ray was no great poet or especially erudite about his feelings. He was pizza and beers on the couch, not Shakespeare.