“You mean you want to talk to me direct, you don’t want me to make an appointment? Go through your agent?” “All right. I get it.” “You’re feeling good enough to talk to me? You aren’t sick? You aren’t asleep? You aren’t out of town? You aren’t just fucking unavailable?” “Ivan—” “‘Ivan’ shit.” “All right,” she said. “O.K.” “You want to know what I think of your life?” “No,” she said, but he was already spitting into the telephone.
