“Only professionally.”
I picked up the phone.
The call was video.
I had not prepared for video.
Ellie’s face filled the screen, slightly too close. She adjusted the phone against something on her desk, and the frame widened.
Pale green bedroom.
Swimming medals on the wall.
A photograph on the dresser.
And Ellie wearing my T-shirt.
I noticed the shirt first.
Then tried to look as though I had noticed the medals.
“One of those says participation.”
Ellie followed my gaze.
“That one was political.”
“You were eleven.”
“Corruption starts early.”
The shirt slipped toward one shoulder when she moved.
I studied the participation medal with renewed concentration.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“At your athletic history.”
“You’ve never been this interested in youth swimming.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You dropped your phone before saying hello.”
“Multitudes with poor coordination.”
She smiled.
I smiled back.
Then the reason for the call returned and settled between us.
Ellie folded one leg beneath her.
“How are you?”
“Good.”
