I just read Roddy Doyle's piece, Sleep, in the New Yorker.  It has a fantastic voice and reminds me a little of an Irish Kissing in Manhattan.  I am impressed with how he treats the language, the nuance of the letter 'g'.  I love the spacing of their sleep patterns, their social class, and how they fit perfectly together for decades, raise a family, find beauty in the dirt in the fog.  It was a good story and in its last paragraph it became great to me.  Something about it sends shivers across my back (in a good way).  

He jumps across time to explain their relationship but he doesn't lose us in the leap.  As I write, I am thinking about it, still processing, and I realize because of how he treats time, we reach the chronological end of the story before the final page.  It's refreshing to read a great story.  I am trying to read more and tonight I forced myself to stay up later than usual.  I have been rewarded.