We chatted for an hour about brownies. I would make a big batch and bring them to the gig.
At some point I got out of bed, still on the phone, opened the door, and walked through the next room toward the kitchen.
He was sitting, no clothes at all, on the bed by the window, sunrise streaming across the white sheets. He stopped talking as I walked through, but he didn’t look at me.
Before I got to the kitchen I woke up.
He couldn’t even be in the same room as me, to talk in person. It had to be on the phone, a closed door between us.
It meant so little that he hadn’t even bothered to get dressed.
Oh, and I wasn’t good enough to play music with him. No, I was just bringing brownies.
One of the busiest artists alive took an hour to talk to me about whatever was on my mind. Happened to be brownies. He didn’t care, he just laughed and asked about my recipe.
We didn’t have to be in the same room. It didn’t matter. It only mattered that we talked, that he could really listen.
And he felt so comfortable he was willing to expose himself completely to me.