Miranda sits at the table and turns the ring over and over. “You should have called me,” she says.
“Of course I called you.” He blinks and frowns. “I called you until your mailbox filled up. I called out the window and I called 911. I called, I–I called you names–“
“Please don’t take that tone,” she says.
“Why not?” he asks coldly. “It’s not as if I can make you upset.”
But Miranda loves him, loves him like chocolate and heat and really good pop songs. She can’t speak. She slaps the table and all the windows blow out.
And it’s a bit of an in-joke, but William’s allegory for my occasional struggles with syndication is unfairly rich.