Speaker Phone

We can't take our Sunday walk on the beach because Tano's working on his résumé. Version number 1020.

I buy new toys—colored pencils and a speaker phone. I draw pictures of broken hearts and blackened hearts and hearts with happy faces and I put them on the wall above our computers to remind him to think about what it means to him to love someone.

"I don't have time to think about that," he says. He says, "I'm thinking about strong verbs. Do you prefer categorized or organized?"

He interviews at BoxTop on Thursday and he brings two versions of his résumé because he can't decide. He says he'll ask the woman interviewing him if she prefers bullet points or plain indentation.

He spends the next weekend rewording the part about the music videos he worked on with Madlyn. He wants the experience to fit on two lines.

He calls back BoxTop on Monday. The woman who interviewed him says, "Please call later." On Tuesday she says she's in a meeting.

On Wednesday I tell him that's a Hollywood No. I tell him he's making a name for himself as an industry nudge.

On Thursday she says, "Call me back Friday." He asks, what time and she says, "After 6 p.m."

I'm embarrassed for him. I want him to get a job to end my suffering and I hope it doesn't hurt my career to live with him.

He calls her at 5 p.m. on Friday in case she's leaving early, and she says, "It's a bad time."

He says, "Look, I just want to know if you're hiring. If you tell me No, I'll leave you alone forever. Are you hiring?"

There's a pause. "Yes," she says.

"When should I call you back?" he says.

I am impressed.

I say, "Tano, are you going to think about loving me or not? Just say No, and I'll leave you alone forever."

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