The woman on the phone was selling something. I tried to ask her what it was, but she was just a prerecorded message. Her voice was sharp, anxious. I wanted to ask her if she was worried that all that time her son was spending in the bathroom meant he was bulimic. Maybe he was fantasizing about his math teacher. Maybe she didn't have a son. Maybe that's why when her husband came home at night he cracked a beer before speaking to her. Was that why she went into sales, ostensibly, to make people happy, but really because she craved the reaffirmation of rejection?

She talked about the potential savings, the benefits of buying from the company she represented versus buying from her competitors. "I love you," I said. "I know it's been a long time since anyone's said your name with anything other than disdain, so tell it to me and I will. Tell me where you live so I can water your lawn. That's what men are for." She finished speaking and the line went dead. "It's too late for what we could've had," I said. The phone started to beep. No time to grieve, nothing to do but hang up and wait and hope and wait and hope.