Gary is a man whose greyness seeps and percolates from his hair down through to the colour of his face, clothing, and even his posture. He is wrapped, without fail, in a jean jacket peppered with sandy, faded patches that is constantly out of synch with denim pants always two shades lighter, or darker, than the coat. In the message he's left me, asking me if I'll come upstairs to see him about something, there's a greyness in his voice; there's a mumble, then some kind of whimper, then Gary's back on track -- whenever I get the message, he says, never mind the time, just pop upstairs.

I pick the phone up from its cradle, dialing Gary, pressing the '7' harder, with my thumb, because it's jammed. Gary's phone, ringing thrice, can be heard through my open side window.