He misses me.

Or rather he misses the me I used to be. "My little scientist" he calls me. I'm not sure I qualify anymore. I deal mostly in the alchemy of words, of the obscure chemistry of entertainers, of entertainment, the way the pieces fit together to make something happen that appeals to the abstract "audience". (and my part in the alchemy is subtle and often unobserved, a small bit of the catalyst at the beginning of a much much larger reaction)

I wonder what he'd think of the me I am now. If my life surrounded by rogues and minstrels, poets and dancing girls would be a disappointment to him.

I also wonder, after all this time, why he misses me at all.