He'll be waiting a bit of a while. Phil simmers in it, is suffused with it, bleeding his longing from the chest until saturates the rest of his whole self, the way watercolor fills a soaked page or smoke fills a room.

He picks himself back up, straightening his posture and his shirt, looking calmer now to all the world. The longing hasn't gone anywhere.

"Okay. Well. What next, if we're going down the list?"