He sat in his study for forty minutes after the call.
This was becoming a habit, the sitting in rooms after things happened, the processing of information in a stillness that his younger self would have found incomprehensible. His younger self had processed everything in motion, in the forward direction, the next thing immediately following the current thing without space between them. He had been efficient. He had been, in the way of men who confuse speed with competence, very proud of his efficiency.
He was learning, slowly, that the space between things was where most of the important content lived.
She had answered. He had not been certain she would answer. He had held the phone for three minutes before calling, which was not something he did. He had told himself the call was about Ivy, which was true, and had not told himself the other reason, which was that he had wanted to hear her voice.
He had heard her voice.
