“But I really like making you sandwiches,” I whimper. The Man says he doesn’t believe catering to him will make me happy. He wants autonomy, not a pet. I’ve just stepped, catlike, out of the shower, in his short-term Los Angeles rental where I have been half-living since day three of our meeting, three months ago. He is in a rush to get to work — and away from me. While brushing his teeth, he tells me it’s over. His parting words: “And wipe your face!” Stunned, I make a circle in the foggy