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he'd left the phone. He'd spent the day walking by the beach and then working on a particularly beautiful piece of driftwood he'd picked up.
    We didn't phone every night, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred; he was happy—ranting about the sea and his work. I never told him about my panicked state. It made me feel stupid, like a teenager, and the last thing I wanted, was for him to see me that way, too.
    Maybe it was the sea that did it, or the city. Maybe it was working nine to five, and tube carriages so crammed with people, their thoughts and odors permeated every part of me. Maybe it was walks by the beach, along the steady soothing rhythm of the waves.
    The next time it happened, I tried to stay calm, but when it stretched for days, I finally called his landline and let it ring and ring until he picked up, out of breath and a big smile in his voice. He'd been working. Had it really been three days? He hadn't realized.  
    This time he apologized and we spent the evening together on the phone. A few days later, I had a huge package delivered. My neighbor accepted it for me, and I had trouble getting it into my flat. Turned out, he'd spent the last few days working on an intricate driftwood table for the side of my bed. It had sea glass worked into the wood, little glimmering mirror pieces and fisherman's rope.  
    The note said: You mentioned not having a place to keep a book and a lamp by the bed.  
    Later, he told me how this wasn't anything like his usual work, that he'd thought of me lying in my bed and different ideas and inspiration had sprung into his head. He described how he hadn't been able to stop working at it for days. He'd cackled when he told me how hard it had been to keep it a secret when I called.
    That time, I did tell him. He made me, because he saw tears well up in my eyes over the webcam. That time, he'd thought of me as much as I had of him—but he'd spent it lovingly creating something for me, while I had hovered over the phone.
    His time had passed in a flash of wood shavings and sea glass, while mine had lasted an eternity between meetings and trying to force my mind back onto the article I was researching, the project I was asked to manage.
    I tried to take these instances as lessons, but that was harder than I thought. I still don't know how to handle it well, I still wonder every time whether he's finally gotten bored with this—the lack of touch, or the disproportionate amount of time he has to spend making me feel better.
    It's hard. I didn't expect that; it's hard to be where he is not, to hold back feelings I'm not supposed to have yet.
    ***
    “So, in conclusion,” I said, drawing a circle around my last slide with the red laser dot, “if we want to attract a younger target market to our magazine we need to aggressively pursue these three lines of action. We have to establish a bold, visually pleasing and interactive web presence; we have to take risks, feature more young, independent cinema in the actual magazine so that it actually stays informative and doesn’t rehash the same old things everybody can find with two clicks on their phone; and finally pursue a more inventive ad strategy.”
    I swallowed, watching the three old men at the table across from me. They did not look happy. “That’s… the result of our research.”
    George Lyle was tapping his finger against his lips; he’d narrowed his eyes some two minutes into my presentation and hadn’t relaxed since. The other two were clearly waiting for him to speak, and I played with the damn laser-pointer, sending a Morse code message against the grey carpet. My dad taught me when I was a child; all I remember now is my name.  
    .. .-. .. ...
    Iris. Iris. Iris.  
    I got through five repetitions before Lyle cleared his throat.  
    “Can I assume number one and three are high budget ideas?”
    I clicked the remote a few times until I landed back on the slide with the growth projections. I was not responsible for