Eitan Sun is without peer. Other than Cat, I have no better friend. Honest and straightforward, he has never failed to live up to his surname. He reads two books simultaneously and types on three keyboards at once. He once confided to me the pick-up line he used to meet his wife.
“I was attending the Twelfth Conference on Calculus Variations in Vienna. I sat next to her in one of the seminars, smiled—grinned like a maniac maybe—and said, ‘I wish I was a derivative so I could lay tangent to your curves.’”
Eitan is large and round. His favorite t-shirt identifies him as Homo nocturnes. He has huge eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses, the fair, unlined complexion of a pre-pubescent boy with no hint of beard or mustache. His hair is thinning already, so he covers it with ball caps, and a ragged fringe falls to his shoulders. Zeke likes him–he’s an ex-SEAL with the same scruffy disdain for appearance.
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