Cat’s a good listener, but she doesn’t let that get in the way of asking what she needs to refine her understanding or of firing out comments that force me to elaborate or look at things from a new angle. While I’m babbling, I also manage to cram the gyoza and yakisoba down my yam. By the time I’m reaching the end of the story, I see the Chinese waiter doing the old approach-avoidance thing outside the phone booth. So I tell Cat, "Hold one," blank the screen, open the door, and shove the empty plates out into his hands. "One more plate of gyoza," I tell him, both to get him out of my hair and because I’m still ready to eat my own flesh. As he races off, I bring Cat back from limbo.