When it is slow at work, Bobby sends 28 text messages in a row, in the span of 4 minutes. It is a feat of both hand and brain, proof of how fast his brain and hands move in concert. Each of his texts could inspire a deeply engaging conversation about America, past, present and future. He jumps from race to economic inequality to political conservatism to the Clinton dynasty to Hillary's response to Bill's infidelity to feminist lesbian Hillary slash fanfiction.

He ends each missive with Onion-style fake news headlines that just barely merit rejection.

"Emergency session of congress called to address concerns that there won't be any good new war movies, declares war on three more countries"

I type lol but do not crack a smile. He's always asking us/guilting us that we haven't started a fake news blog yet, even though he knows the internet has basically left us in the dust. We each use three apps, mostly Instagram. Trying to get internet famous, or even internet-honorable-mention, is like an ironic lottery that no one believes in anymore. Or maybe it's more like the Shirley Jackson version.

Bobby once said his ideal mate would be an exact replica of himself, so he could have himself to bounce ideas off, have someone to keep up in conversation with himself, basically a him for him to play with. 

It's my first election year outside of America, and thanks to his texts, I'm ashamed to admit I almost miss the 24 hour news cycle. Trump is a distant blur of a comb-over tumbleweed; news trickles down from the journalist friends I follow on Instagram, on the set of MSNBC, at a White House briefing, dodged at a Clinton gaggle.

As I'm writing this chapter, Bobby texts the image above, a 30 second sketch he texts privately to Molly and me. He's embarrassed that I want to post it, says it's just an inside joke. His "inside" jokes are all American parody, commentaries on sex, power, politics.

Just when I'm tired of Bobby's political rants, he stops sending them. Instead, he's sending barely veiled messages about the sex dreams he's been having lately about Molly. I talk quietly to him on the phone, while I'm at the public pool on summer's last swim day. It feels taboo to be hearing him whisper luridly like this, with children around.