She calls me at 2pm. I’m walking across Wilshire Blvd on a quest for iced tea. Her voice is charming, inflected, slightly authoritative.
– Daddy, my computer doesn’t work.
– What’s wrong?
– It won’t let me go on the internet.
– Is your airport connection working?
(muffled tones as she asks her mother the same question)
– Now it works, Dad.
– I love you.
– I love you, too. I can’t talk now. I’m looking at things on Pottery Barn.
– Well, have fun.
– Thank you, my precious Daddy.
– click –