And here it was, the great and terrible ten, slamming me again and again
as I lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me against the rocks
then pulling me back out to sea so they could launch me again into the jagged face of the cliff,
leaving me floating faceup on the water, undrowned. Finally I did call him.
His phone rang five times and then went to voice mail.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of Augustus Waters,” he said, the clarion voice I’d fallen for. “Leave a message.”
It beeped. The dead air on the line was so eerie.
I just wanted to go back to that secret post-terrestrial third space with him that we visited when we talked on the phone.
I waited for that feeling, but it never came: The dead air on the line was no comfort, and finally I hung up.
I got my laptop out from under the bed and fired it up and went onto his wall page, where already the condolences were flooding in.
The most recent one said: “I love you, bro. See you on the other side...” Written by someone I’d never heard of.
In fact, almost all the wall posts, which arrived nearly as fast as I could read them,
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