The phone rings at 9:00 pm, right on schedule. Rob's getting back into town after teaching another wine-tasting class in Portland. Why he drives down there every Sunday is more than I can fathom, but he says it pays well, and who am I to complain when I have an endless supply of leftover good wine, and a licensed sommelier to boot? I grab an overnight bag and meet him at his apartment. Gabe, the useless moggy, gives me the evil eye. I promise him I'm not here to play vet.I've spent more nights than I can count crashed on a futon in an apartment that, every time I see it, looks more and more unapologetically like it's been on the wrong end of a tornado. Rob is
my last good friend from Seattle who has actually stayed in Seattle. (Alicia and Jen have fled, for reasons of education, housing markets, or both.) He's a useful person to know, especially if you need an escort walking down a dark alley, or a lock picked, or advice on which Cabernet is best suited to the subtle smoky flavors of your god-knows-what. I miss him and count him among my closest friends, but it's not so much an emotional let's-talk-about-our-lives friendship as a let's-go-play-pinball friendship. That makes it a bit harder to maintain over long distances, but so far we've managed.
I pour two glasses of muscat and we fall asleep watching Robot Chicken.
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