Chapter 17: Questions, Questions
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10. Chapter 11. Chapter 12. Chapter 13. Chapter 14. Chapter 15. Chapter 16.

     “What was that all about?” Liz asked matter-of-factly when I returned from my walk later that afternoon. I had been out for about six hours combing the streets of Boston, lurking behind public mailboxes, hoping to catch sight of a familiar face. It was a long shot, I realized, but then you never know with trout. They can be quite unpredictable.
     “What was what all about?” I said, draping my jacket across the arm of the plaid pullout sofa.
     “What do you mean, ‘what was what all about?'” Liz snapped.
     I was game. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean, “what was what all about?”‘”
     Liz turned her back to me. “I don’t appreciate you just leaving like that. I was worried about you, if that even matters.”
     “What do you mean, ‘if that even matters?'”
     I was pressing my luck.
     Liz didn’t say a word, nor did she have to. Before I was dead, I was alive long enough to know what she was thinking — what all women think at one time or another.
     What she was thinking was this:
     “What an asshole.”
     “I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I’m an asshole.”
     “You read my mind,” she said.

****
Chapter 18