He just came by and told me he’s moving over to the Four Seasons in East Palo Alto. Not because we’ve shut off the air conditioning, mind you. He said nothing about that. Though I saw him this morning and he was looking pretty sweaty and drained. Trust me, the guy can’t deal with temps above seventy. He melts like a wax statue. “I just don’t want to be an imposition on you,” he says. “You’ve been really considerate and generous and a great friend, but I just feel I should go to the hotel.”
I told him I understand, and that we’d miss him and that I hoped he and Tipper could work things out, and he could have our old Mercedes station wagon for as long as he wants. Then we both did our gassho bows and said, “Namaste.” As soon as he was gone I called Breezeann and told her to fire up the damn A/C again. We’re breaking out champagne tonight.