ELLIS PLUNGED DOWN a ramp into interstate traffic, merged left, and was moving with the great flows of red and white lights when his phone rang and Heather asked from it, ‘Where are you?’ ‘I’m coming.’ ‘Are you going to be late?’ ‘I won’t miss the start,’ he said, although, when he glanced at the glowing digits of the clock in the instrument panel, he wondered. ‘I have my ticket. You and Boggs can go in.’ ‘John isn’t here either. His plane was delayed.’ ‘Then why are you yelling at me?’ ‘I’m not yelling. It’s only that I hoped to see you first.’ ‘OK. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ As they hung up, he came off the interstate and when traffic slowed he made himself keep away from the bumper of the car ahead. Over the right side of the road floated an enormous sepia-toned semicircle moon. Chekhov. Ellis didn’t care about the play, and he didn’t like this arrangement – his sense of guilt was curling itself tight at the prospect of seeing Boggs and Heather together.
