I’m Losing You Read Online Free PDF

through the Traulsen fridge. The view of the yard—his erstwhile domain—was panoramic. Gardeners moved like beadles through hedges; swimming pool generator hummed. The guest house presented its anodynous, photogenic façade.
    â€œDidn’t see you come in.” His stepfather’s bogus, in-patient smile lit up the room like a hospital cafeteria.
    â€œI had a job over in Bel Air.”
    â€œWe haven’t seen you in a while.”
    â€œI’ve been a wee bit frantic—no estoy el problemo.”
    â€œDoes your mother know you’re here?”
    â€œThat’s a negative.”
    â€œThere’s some wonderful cheese in there.” Mitch took over the Traulsen, reestablishing supremacy. He grinned, scanning Simon’s coveralls. “I hope you’re pretty well dusted off.” He went to the cabinet and got a plate. “How’s business?”
    â€œThings were dead but now they’re picking up.” Simon heh-heh’ed and gulped a Diet Sprite. “Mom with a patient?”
    â€œYou mean
client
.” Mitch smiled correctively at Simple Simon. “
Patience
is something we
lose
. We don’t lose
clients
—not hopefully, anyway.” Through the window, an Asian girl lingered by a table in front of Mitch’s side of the cottage. The stepfather took note then said, “And yes, she’s with a client.”
    â€œI probably won’t see her then. Need to get home to write.”
    â€œI’ll tell Calliope you said hello.”
    â€œYou know, I usually charge sixty-five for that—to say hello,” he said, nonsensically. Simon took a parting smear of Brie. “She’s getting a real deal. Tell her the Dead Animal Guy stopped by, she
hates
that. No! Tell her Ace Ventura, Dead Pet Detective, was here.”
    â€œI think I’ll just say, ‘Your son came by to see you.’ So long, Simon. And clean up after yourself, okay?”
    Simon watched through the window as Mitch made a hammily breathless entrance, greeting the Client as if graciously squeezing her between photo shoots and tribute dinners—all he ever wanted, Simon thought, was to be famous like his wife. By the way the Asian looked at him, she was clearly in the honeymoon of transference. Probably some TV exec, but to Simon, she was a dead ringer for the sniper in
Full Metal Jacket
. “Me so haw-nee. Me analyze you long time.” Simon laughed, warm Sprite fizzing from a nostril. Mitch unlocked the door of his office, each movement performed with craftsmanlike felicity, a kind of in-the-now small-town ardor, a joyous, fraudulent humility that insidiously celebrated
himself
while reasserting the Client’s pathetic station. Yes: if Dr. Markowitz was on a steady jog through leafy Brentwood byways, then his troubled flock was on a nude, witless jag through Bosnian streets.
    Moments after Mitch and the whore from Saigon vanished, a large, elegantly dressed black plunked himself down in one of the Adirondack thrones. Simon did a double take: it was Hassan DeVore—aka Fista, the Vorbalidian antihero of
Blue Matrix
. The Dead Animal Guy fairly yawped. His very own mother just happened to be therapist to the Chief Navigator of the Starship
Demeter
! Simon glanced at the clock; twelve of. He swiped his lips and raced outside.
    â€œUh, excuse me…”
    DeVore gaped at him, thinking he was an intruder.
    â€œI’m Calliope’s son.”
    He broke into a smile as wide as a starship bridge. “Nice to meet you!” The actor was known for his basso profundo, as for his courtly, theatrical manner.
    â€œShe’ll kill me for talking to you—”
    â€œNo,” he said stalwartly. “I won’t let her.
And
it would be bad for her practice.”
    â€œI just had to tell you how big a fan I am.”
    â€œWhy, thank you very much!”
    â€œI’m Simon—Krohn.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, Simon. I’m