He wasn't sorry. He'd known that he was going to hurt his friend's feelings. Known it, and meant to do it again, and what's more, he was going to continue to shave the edge from his apologies by spelling it "sarey" as if he didn't know any better until well into his 20's. What he didn't know was just who was going to see through the ruse and plan a bitter revenge.
He still wore his Columbia U sweatshirt, still pushed his tortoise-shell glasses up his narrow nose when he concentrated. He continued to pile The New Yorker and The Economist and Smithsonian magazines on the mudroom table. He kept the boxwood hedge sharp-edged and neat, and left bags of leaves waited at the curb after a weekend of lawn-work. But the ruined Lexus was never replaced, and the big dining room never again filled with dinner-guests. He didn't read the magazines, and the home-health aid only ever used the microwave in that big airy kitchen, heating up his nightly meal from the stack in the freezer.