Zeke’s my friend. He loves his wife, his dog, his house, his car. He’d love his kids, too, if he had any. He drinks little, swears less, shakes hands with a strong grip, meditates, runs, lifts weights, and does forty laps in the pool every morning. He eats tofu, yogurt, sprouts; avoids red meat because it’s a killer, he says.
Zeke and Kathy have been married five years. Five! And I was at the wedding. He’s something.
He calls. I’m in bed. I pick up the phone and say, Hey Zeke, before he says a word. I know his ring.
