The orchid was dying again. Marcus watched the yellowing leaves from his kitchen table, morning coffee growing cold between his palms. He'd inherited the plant three months ago, along with everything else in his sister Alison's apartment. The orchid had been the only living thing there.

"You just need water and light," he muttered, more to himself than the plant. "How hard can it be?"

Pretty hard, apparently. The orchid's decline mirrored his own these past months—slow, steady, inexorable. He'd managed to keep showing up to work, kept paying his bills, kept breathing. But thriving? That was another matter entirely.

His phone buzzed: a text from his neighbor, Mrs. Chen.

"Dinner tonight? Made too much soup again."

Marcus smiled despite himself. Mrs. Chen had been "making too much soup" twice a week since Alison's funeral. She never mentioned that she'd started cooking vegetarian meals—his preference—or that she'd begun making "extra" food only after he'd moved into the building to handle his sister's affairs.

"Thanks," he typed back. "But I'm okay."

Three dots appeared immediately. "Wasn't asking if you're okay. Soup at 6. Bring that bread you made last week."

He hadn't made bread last week. Hadn't made bread in months, actually. Before... everything, baking had been his therapy, his creative outlet. The feel of dough beneath his hands, the rhythm of kneading, the simple alchemy of turning flour and water into something nourishing—it had centered him. But lately, even the thought of pulling out his mixing bowls felt exhausting.

Still, he knew Mrs. Chen. She'd keep texting until he agreed, and then she'd stand in her doorway at 5:55, waiting to hear his footsteps on the stairs.

"No bread, but I'll come," he replied.

"Good boy. Bring the orchid too. Looking sad from my window."

Marcus glanced at the plant, then up at Mrs. Chen's window across the courtyard. She waved, her small figure silhouetted against her kitchen light. Of course she'd been watching. She watched everything from up there, like some benevolent guardian spirit of their small apartment complex.

The orchid did look sad. Its once-proud stem drooped, the few remaining flowers hanging like forgotten party decorations. Alison had kept it blooming constantly, a feat Marcus had initially attributed to her biology degree. Now he wondered if it had been something else—some innate understanding of what living things needed to thrive.

His sister had always known what people needed, too. She'd known when to push and when to let things be, when to offer advice and when to simply listen. After their parents' death in the car accident ten years ago, she'd somehow held them both together, even though she'd been only twenty-two to his eighteen.

"You're stronger than you think," she'd told him then. "We both are. We just have to keep going, keep finding the light."

Finding the light. It had become her mantra, her answer to every setback. When he'd dropped out of college, overwhelmed by grief and uncertainty, she'd helped him find a job at the local bakery. When his first serious relationship had ended badly, she'd dragged him on weekend hiking trips, pointing out tiny wildflowers growing through rocks, birds building nests in storm-damaged trees.

Even at the end, when the cancer had spread too far too fast, she'd kept finding light. "Look," she'd say from her hospital bed, pointing at the way the sunset painted the walls, or how the wind made patterns in the tree branches outside her window. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Marcus set down his coffee cup and walked to the orchid, touching one of its leaves gently. The surface was cool and silky beneath his fingertip. Still alive, despite everything. Still trying.

He spent the day at work, going through the motions at the IT help desk where he'd landed after the bakery closed last year. Every call felt like it took enormous effort, each routine problem a mountain to climb. By five-thirty, his patience was frayed thin.

But he went home, collected the orchid, and climbed the stairs to Mrs. Chen's fourth-floor apartment. She opened the door before he could knock.

"Ah, good timing! Soup just finished." She took the orchid from his hands, clucking her tongue. "Poor baby. We'll fix you up."

Her apartment was small but warm, filled with the smell of ginger and garlic. Plants covered every available surface—hanging from the ceiling, crowding the windowsills, creating a green jungle in the corner of her living room. In the center of it all, a massive orchid collection bloomed in riotous colors.

"You grow orchids," Marcus said, feeling stupid for never having noticed before.

"Forty years now." She set his plant among its cousins. "Started in Singapore, before coming here. My mother grew them. Her mother too." She touched one of the yellowed leaves. "This one just needs some company. Plants are like people—they get lonely."

Marcus thought of Alison's apartment, of the orchid sitting alone by the window while he worked late, ordered takeout, fell asleep on the couch watching Netflix. Like people, indeed.

"Sit, sit," Mrs. Chen instructed, guiding him to her small table. "Soup first, then I show you about orchids."

The soup was perfect—clear broth, tender vegetables, hints of lemongrass and lime. They ate in comfortable silence, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the gentle whir of Mrs. Chen's humidifiers.

"My husband never understood plants," she said finally, setting down her spoon. "Always saying, 'Why you talk to them? They can't hear.' But he brought home new pots for me anyway, every birthday, every anniversary. After he died, the plants—they helped. Something to care for. Something still growing."

She stood, carrying their bowls to the sink. "Sometimes the small things, they keep us alive. Little bits of green, pushing through concrete. Like your sister's bread."

Marcus looked up sharply. "What?"

"The bread she brought me, every Sunday. Said you taught her to make it, after your parents died. Said kneading the dough helped her think, helped her plan how to take care of you both." Mrs. Chen dried her hands on a towel. "Very good bread. I have her recipe still, if you want it."

Something cracked in Marcus's chest. He remembered those Sundays, teaching Alison to shape loaves in their tiny kitchen, both of them covered in flour and grief. He'd thought she was humoring him, letting her little brother share his hobby. He hadn't known she'd kept baking after he stopped, hadn't known she'd been feeding their neighbors, carrying on the tradition he'd abandoned.

"I—" His voice caught. "I'd like that."

Mrs. Chen nodded and pulled a worn notebook from a drawer. The recipe was written in Alison's neat handwriting, with notes in the margins: "Extra honey when Mrs. C is sad," and "Remember to score deeper—M. always said it helps the rise."

Marcus traced the words with his finger, feeling the indentations in the paper. All those Sundays, and he hadn't known.

"Now," Mrs. Chen said briskly, "about orchids. They need indirect light, good air flow. Most people water too much. Better to..." She walked him through the care instructions, demonstrating with her own plants. Marcus tried to focus, but his mind kept returning to the recipe, to all the things he hadn't known about his sister.

"They bloom again," Mrs. Chen said, interrupting his thoughts. "Even when looks dead, orchid is just resting. Gathering strength. Like people, sometimes we need to rest before we can bloom."

She wrapped Alison's recipe carefully in wax paper and pressed it into his hands. "Come Thursday. We check orchid, make bread. Maybe soup too—I always make too much."

Marcus nodded, his throat tight. When he returned to his apartment, he set the orchid in his kitchen window, adjusting it until it caught the last rays of evening light. Then he opened his cabinet and pulled out his mixing bowls, letting the familiar weight of them ground him.

The recipe was simple—flour, water, salt, honey. His hands remembered the motions, even after all these months. As he kneaded, he thought about Alison bringing bread to Mrs. Chen, about Mrs. Chen watching from her window, about all the ways people take care of each other without saying it directly.

He shaped the dough into a loaf, scored the top with the pattern he'd taught Alison years ago. While it rose, he cleaned his kitchen, organized his cupboards, watered the orchid according to Mrs. Chen's instructions. Small things, but they felt like progress.

The bread came out perfectly, golden and crusty. The smell filled his apartment, bringing with it a flood of memories: teaching Alison to bake, their parents' Sunday dinners, countless moments he'd thought were lost. He cut a slice while it was still warm, added a pat of butter, watched it melt.

For the first time in months, he felt hungry.

The next morning, the orchid's leaves looked a little greener. Maybe it was his imagination, or maybe just the early light, but he chose to believe it was real. He made coffee, packed the rest of the bread for work, and took a different route to the office—one that passed by the park where Alison used to walk.

The trees were beginning to bud, tiny leaves unfurling in the spring warmth. Somewhere nearby, a bird was singing. Marcus stopped to listen, remembering how Alison would point out different bird calls, making up silly mnemonics to help him remember them.

His phone buzzed: Mrs. Chen again. "Bread was good. Thursday still good for you?"

"Yes," he typed back. "I'll bring flour."

"Good boy. Orchid looking better already."

Marcus smiled and continued walking, paying attention to the small things: the pattern of clouds overhead, the way the morning light caught in puddles, the persistent green of plants pushing through sidewalk cracks. Everywhere he looked, life was continuing, growing, finding its way toward the light.

That evening, he baked another loaf of bread. And the next evening, and the next. Each time, his hands felt more sure, his movements more natural. He started bringing slices to work, sharing with colleagues who'd been tiptoeing around him since Alison's death. Started accepting dinner invitations instead of making excuses.

The orchid began to improve under Mrs. Chen's tutelage. New leaves emerged, small but sturdy. No flowers yet, but that would come with time. On Thursdays, they baked together, Mrs. Chen sharing stories about Singapore while Marcus kneaded dough and checked on "his" plant among her collection.

Slowly, like an orchid gathering strength, like bread rising in a warm kitchen, Marcus began to feel himself unfurling. The weight of grief didn't disappear, but it shifted, became something he could carry while still moving forward. He started finding light in small things: the satisfaction of perfectly shaped loaf, the first cup of coffee in the morning, the way Mrs. Chen's face lit up when he brought her fresh bread.

One morning, about six months after that first dinner, Marcus noticed something different about the orchid. A new stem had emerged, tiny but unmistakable. A flower spike, Mrs. Chen called it. The promise of blooms to come.

He touched it gently, marveling at its resilience. All this time, while he'd been focused on the yellowing leaves and drooping stems, the plant had been gathering strength, preparing for this moment. Like Alison bringing bread to neighbors he didn't know she visited. Like Mrs. Chen watching from her window, making soup, waiting for the right moment to reach out. Like himself, learning to live again, one small thing at a time.

"You just need water and light," he told the orchid, repeating his words from months ago. But this time he understood: it wasn't just about water and light. It was about patience, about trust in the slow process of growth and healing. About the unexpected gardens we find in our grief, the ways we learn to bloom again.

He took a picture of the flower spike and sent it to Mrs. Chen.

Her reply came immediately: "Ready to bloom. Like you."

Marcus smiled, running his finger along the stem one more time before starting his day. Outside, the morning light was turning the building's brick walls gold, birds were singing in the courtyard trees, and somewhere upstairs, he knew Mrs. Chen was tending her jungle of plants, making too much soup, watching over them all.

Small things, adding up to a life. Not the life he'd planned, perhaps, but one worth living. One worth tending, like a garden, like bread rising in the warmth, like an orchid gathering strength to bloom again.

Later that evening, kneading dough in his kitchen while the orchid caught the last light of day, Marcus thought he understood what Alison had meant about finding the light. It wasn't about searching for some distant brightness. It was about learning to see the light that was already there, in the small moments of connection, in the quiet acts of care, in the persistent green of things growing despite everything.

He scored the top of his loaf—not just the practical slashes he'd taught Alison, but a pattern of leaves and flowers. Tomorrow he'd take it to Mrs. Chen, and they'd eat soup, and talk about plants, and plan their next baking day. Small things, but enough. More than enough.

The orchid's new stem reached toward the window, strong and sure, promising beauty to come. Marcus watched it catch the light and smiled, feeling the weight of all these small things holding him up, carrying him forward, helping him grow toward whatever blooms might come next.

In the town of Grammarville, every day was like something straight out of a grammar textbook. Everyone lived according to their tense, every day just fell into place. But one day, something unusual happened.

Mr. Present Simple, as usual, woke up early, had his coffee, and declared:

— "I wake up at 7 am every day. I always do this."

Then Mr. Past Continuous appeared with a complaint:

— "I was waking up at 7 am this morning when I heard a strange noise."

— "What do you mean, was waking up?!" — Present Simple protested. — "You wake up, like everyone else. It’s simple!"

Past Continuous shrugged:

— "No, no, I was waking up, it was happening right now. I was having a dream, you see?"

— "A dream? You are telling me that you were sleeping and now you are awake?" — Present Simple started to panic. — "That’s nonsense. I wake up at 7, I get dressed, I eat my breakfast. No stories."

But Past Continuous didn’t give up:

— "I was eating my breakfast, was drinking tea, and suddenly—BAM! Something was flying right across my window!"

— "No one is flying across your window at 7 AM! You are just imagining things," — declared Present Simple. — "This is why I keep things simple!"

— "But it was real! It was happening! I swear!" — Past Continuous insisted.

At that moment, Mr. Future Simple came to the rescue and joyfully announced:

— "I will tell you how it will be resolved, but first, let me make a coffee."

Everyone fell silent and looked at Future Simple, who, of course, made himself coffee for the future.

— "So, what happens next?" — asked Present Simple. — "Do we wake up? Or were we waking up?!"

— "I will wake up at 7 AM tomorrow!" — Future Simple declared enthusiastically, not really understanding what the problem was.

Meanwhile, Mr. Present Perfect, who was always on time, approached the matter seriously.

— "I have had enough of this chaos. I have been listening to these arguments for hours. It’s clear to me: Present Simple and Past Continuous have never been friends!"

— "What do you mean have never been? We are friends!" — Present Simple was offended.

— "You were friends until the moment was happening... whatever that means," — said Present Perfect, not understanding at all what was being said.

And then all the grammatical tenses, except for Mr. Past Perfect, who was just sitting in the corner and staying silent, started arguing:

— "I was waking up at 7!"

— "I wake up at 7!"

— "I will wake up at 7!"

And suddenly, Mr. Future Perfect appeared, arms wide open:

— "I will have woken up at 7, and this will have been over!"

And everyone started laughing because, indeed, they all will be right at some point, just not now.

Finally, Mr. Past Perfect stood up, looked at everyone, and said:

— "I had been watching this from the start... and I knew this would happen."

Everyone looked at him in confusion, and it turned out that his story didn’t fit into the rules of any tense, because he had lived through it all before the problem even began.

And everyone realized that, despite all the complexity, all tenses are just time. And the grammar world was saved.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

If you’ve just begun dating that special someone and you’d like to see how your honey reacts under extreme pressure, invite her or him to an intimate dinner. At your house. Seated at a small table with just you and your parents. And, in this case, my seven brothers.

Besides, I felt it was only right to invite Karen to dinner at my family's small wood house, because I’d already partaken at her family’s comfortable, brick home. And the dinner there was a feast. Her mother made roast beef with gravy, and the gravy had its own special porcelain dispenser! Her mother also served white and green vegetables that I had never heard of, and they were bathed in a creamy cheese sauce. And their beautiful wooden dining table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and you would not believe the elbow room! There was just Karen, her parents, and her younger brother. And no one had to sit on a piano bench!

I knew I was out of my element. When her father led the mealtime prayer, I reached for my forehead to make the sign of the cross, but stopped when everyone’s hands stayed still. They closed their eyes, so I closed mine ... part way, because I had to see when it was time to reopen them. And when the odd words came from their lips, I stayed silent.

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

At the conclusion of the prayer, someone stuck a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of me. I soon learned the art of passing food around the table at dinnertime. These German Lutherans had some curious mealtime customs. But their food was great, and they were good company and there was laughter. Not once did religion intrude upon the table talk, even though Karen’s folks knew about my religion, and her father was an elder in their Lutheran church.

Several weeks later, it was Karen’s turn to go on display at my Catholic house. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Karen smiled and was the picture of composure as she and all 10 members of my family crowded around the dining room table. She got to sit in a real chair, because she was a guest. (One of my younger brothers and our mother sat on the piano bench, because they were both left-handed.)

There were no napkins at our table, but Karen wasn’t fazed. Then, all but she made the sign of the cross, and all but she launched into a prayer:

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, Amen.” (However, we sped through our prayer. It sounded more like one continuous word.)

Still, she was composed. But her true test came the instant we said “amen,” because that was the signal for my parents to stand up and dish out the food. Their arms moved furiously around the table. Dad dolloped the mashed potatoes with a big spoon as if he was on a precision bombing mission, each scoop hitting a plate with a hearty thwack. Mom moved around with the fried chicken, dropping her missiles by hand. They worked as a team; my mother finished her run first, so she moved onto spooning up the canned corn.

My father took on the final pre-dinner mission. He grabbed the salt shaker with his big fist and strafed the table, making a pass over each plate. But Karen took a stand: As the salt began to rain down in front of her, she reflexively put her hands over her food, and the crystals bounced off. None of us had ever seen such an expert defensive move at the dinner table. My brothers were in awe. But this Catholic family harbored one nagging question: Why didn’t Lutherans like salt?

Just like at Karen’s house, religion did not intrude at the dinner table. People were too busy eating, laughing, joking, and salting.

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

The cityscape blurs into watercolor smears beyond the fortieth-floor windows—all those lives being lived while Kaia sits frozen at her desk, caught in the gravitational pull of James’s office light down the hall. (Like a moth to flame, except moths don’t spend months constructing elaborate justifications for their inevitably fatal attraction.)

Her cursor blinks in accusatory morse code: *you’re-not-work-ing, you’re-not-work-ing*. The Peterson brief sprawls across her screen, legal jargon swimming before her eyes—a perfect metaphor for her current state, all these carefully constructed arguments dissolving into want.

Time feels elastic after hours, stretching and compressing like a universe bending around a massive object. Which is what this thing between them has become: enormous, unavoidable, warping the space-time continuum of their meticulously maintained professionalism into something dangerous and electric.

She catches her reflection in the darkened window—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated—and catalogs the physiological responses like evidence in a case she’s building against her better judgment. *Exhibit A: elevated heart rate. Exhibit B: shallow breathing. Exhibit C: the way her skin feels too tight, like it’s trying to contain something infinite.*

The walk to his office is thirty-seven steps (she’s counted, repeatedly, obsessively). Tonight each one feels like crossing a threshold, like quantum particles collapsing from possibility into certainty.

He looks up when she appears—always up, never startled, like some part of him is perpetually aware of her proximity—and something molten pools in her chest at the sight: reading glasses sliding low, sleeves rolled with precise intention, the controlled chaos of papers spreading across his desk like the physical manifestation of her scattered thoughts.

“Kaia.” Her name in his mouth is a complete legal brief: argument, evidence, and conclusion all wrapped in two syllables.

“I was just...” The lie evaporates unfinished. They’re both too smart for pretense, too aware of the chess game they’ve been playing where every casual touch is a calculated move toward this moment.

He stands—fluid, deliberate—crossing the room in measured steps that somehow contain both restraint and hunger. “Were you?” His voice carries that familiar trace of amusement, the tone that simultaneously infuriates and intoxicates her. “Just what?”

(There should be a word for this—this exact point when years of legal training in constructing airtight arguments crumbles in the face of pure want.)

“Testing a theory,” she manages, pulse thundering in her ears like waves against a crumbling seawall.

“And what theory would that be?” He’s close enough now that she can see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the lingering notes of coffee mingled with something uniquely him—a scent her lizard brain has cataloged as *dangerous* and *necessary* in equal measure.

Instead of answering, she rises on her toes (a motion she’s rehearsed in her mind so many times it feels like muscle memory) and presses her mouth to his.

The kiss reconstructs her understanding of time: there is before and there is this, and the demarcation between them is sharp enough to draw blood. His hands find her waist as hers tangle in his hair, and some distant part of her brain notes with satisfaction that it’s just as soft as she’d imagined.

They break apart breathing hard, foreheads touching, sharing the same electrically charged air. “We should—” he starts.

“Later,” she interrupts, surprising herself with the authority in her voice. “Some cases require less deliberation than others.”

His laugh is low and warm against her neck. “Counselor,” he murmurs, “I believe you’re leading the witness.”

“Object all you want,” she whispers back, fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

When he kisses her again, it feels like winning a case she didn’t know she was arguing—like justice and mercy wrapped in the same breathless verdict. His hands map the geography of her spine as she presses closer, eliminating any remaining space between precedent and possibility.

“Take me home,” she breathes against his mouth—a motion to proceed that requires no deliberation.

He answers by lacing their fingers together, and they leave their half-finished briefs behind like abandoned closing arguments, stepping into a night that promises to rewrite every law they’ve ever known.

—

Monday arrives with all the subtlety of a summary judgment, harsh fluorescent lights replacing the forgiving darkness that had made everything seem possible seventy-two hours ago. Kaia’s been rehearsing this moment since she fled his apartment at 3 AM Saturday morning (not that she’s counting the hours, except she absolutely is, with the kind of precision usually reserved for billable minutes).

The elevator ride to the fortieth floor feels like watching opposing counsel destroy her star witness. Each ascending number ratchets her anxiety higher: *thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine—God, when did this building get so tall?* She’s arrived precisely twenty-three minutes earlier than usual, a tactical maneuver designed to minimize contact that instead leaves her feeling like a coward citing procedural technicalities.

(She’s analyzed Friday night with the same obsessive attention she typically reserves for depositions, rehashing every moment, every touch, every awkward fumble and miscommunication until the memories feel worn smooth as river stones. The way his hands had shaken. The way she’d gone cold and distant. The terrible, haunting silence afterward.)

The office is blessedly empty—or so she thinks until she rounds the corner and nearly collides with James emerging from the break room, coffee mug in hand. Time stretches like hot glass, then shatters: a study in the relativity of professional mortification.

They do an awkward dance of mutual avoidance, both stepping the same direction twice before freezing in place. His coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim. She clutches her laptop bag like a shield.

“Kaia.” Her name in his mouth sounds different now—clinical, careful, like evidence being handled with latex gloves.

“James.” (When did his name become so difficult to pronounce? Four weeks of bar exam prep were easier than these two syllables.)

The silence that follows could be submitted as an amicus brief on the topic of human discomfort. She maps his appearance with unwanted precision: tie slightly askew (unusual for him), dark circles under his eyes (did he sleep as poorly as she did?), shoulders tense beneath his perfectly pressed shirt (the same shoulders she’d—*no, absolutely not going there*).

“I was just...” They both start simultaneously, then stop. A perfect demonstration of the legal principle of mutual embarrassment.

He clears his throat. “About Friday—”

“The Peterson brief is on your desk,” she interrupts, words tumbling out with the desperate energy of a client volunteering privileged information. “I finished it over the weekend. All the citations are updated, and I added a section on recent precedents that might—”

“Kaia.” Softer this time, almost pained.

“—be relevant to our argument, particularly regarding the statutory interpretation of—”

“*Kaia.*”

She forces herself to meet his eyes, immediately regrets it. Because there it is—everything they’re not talking about, laid out like evidence in a case neither of them knows how to try.

“We should probably...” He runs a hand through his hair (she knows exactly how that hair feels now, a piece of evidence she desperately needs stricken from the record).

“I have a client meeting,” she lies, already backing away. “We can... later. Maybe. If there’s anything... professional... to discuss.”

She retreats to her office with as much dignity as she can muster (which, if quantified, would barely fill a motion in limine). Through her open door, she watches him stand there for a long moment, coffee growing cold in his hand, before he turns toward his own office.

The day stretches ahead like an endless deposition, every hour a careful dance of strategic avoidance and professional necessity. She throws herself into research with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for pro bono cases, as if enough case law can build a wall between Friday night and Monday morning.

But every time footsteps pass her door, her heart executes a series of complex maneuvers that would violate several workplace safety regulations. Each distant phone ring triggers a fight-or-flight response worthy of academic study. The coffee maker’s gurgle sounds accusatory.

(She’s already drafted and deleted seventeen emails to him, each one an exercise in saying nothing while meaning everything. The eighteenth attempt sits in her drafts folder, cursor blinking: *"Regarding the matter of Friday night..."* Like their catastrophic attempt at intimacy can be reduced to a case number and filed away.)

When 5 PM finally arrives—the longest billable hours in legal history—she begins the delicate task of packing up without being noticed, each file and notebook lifted with trembling care. But as she reaches for her coat, a post-it note slides from between the files on her desk. Her breath catches at the familiar handwriting:

*Re: Friday night

Motion to continue discussion?

My office @ 5:30pm*

She stares at the yellow square for so long the words begin to blur, her pulse keeping time like a court reporter’s stenotype. Outside her office, the elevator chimes its end-of-day rhythm as the firm empties out. Soon it will be just them again, in the same after-hours quiet that started this whole mess.

The post-it crinkles as her fingers close around it. Some cases, she realizes, require a second hearing.

Look, I need you to understand something right off the bat—I'm not an idiot. (Well, mostly not an idiot. The jury's still out on my decision to wear Crocs to a robbery, but we'll get to that tragic footwear choice later.) You might be wondering why someone with a bachelor's degree in Contemporary Philosophy—yes, I know, LAUGH IT UP—would end up pointing a trembling finger-gun at a Korean corner store owner at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday. The answer involves three maxed-out credit cards, a gambling addiction I swear I totally have under control, and an ex-girlfriend who took my cat in the breakup. (Mr. Whiskers, if you're reading this somehow, I miss you buddy.)

But here's the thing about desperate times and desperate measures—they're basically first cousins who shouldn't date but totally are, you know what I mean?

The fluorescent lights in Kim's Quick-Stop buzzed like thoughts in my anxiety-riddled brain—incessant, flickering, probably in need of professional attention. I'd been standing in the chips aisle for twenty minutes, pretending to have an existential crisis over Doritos flavors (Cool Ranch vs. Nacho Cheese as a metaphor for the duality of man), while actually having a very real existential crisis about everything else.

My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around absolutely nothing, which—if we're being philosophical about it—is a pretty apt metaphor for my entire life strategy. The plan was simple: walk up to the counter, pretend to have a gun, grab the cash, exit stage left, pay off Kenny the bookie before he introduces my kneecaps to his favorite baseball bat. TOTALLY FOOLPROOF, RIGHT?

Wrong. So cosmically, catastrophically wrong that future civilizations will probably discover the wrongness fossilized in sedimentary rock layers and build entire religions around avoiding such spectacular failures.

Because here's what they don't tell you about robbing corner stores—the owner might be a former Olympic speed-walker. (I'm not making this up. There's literally a faded photo behind the counter of Mr. Kim power-walking his way to bronze in Seoul '88, a fact I probably should have noticed during my previous 3 AM taquito runs.) They also don't tell you that Crocs—even in Adventure Mode with the heel strap engaged—are surprisingly poor getaway shoes.

"Empty the register!" I shouted, my voice cracking like I was going through puberty all over again. (Note to self: if you ever attempt armed robbery again—WHICH YOU WON'T—maybe try voice coaching first?)

Mr. Kim looked at my pocket—my very obviously empty pocket—then at my Crocs (lime green, because if you're going to make questionable life choices, why not make them VISIBLE FROM SPACE), and did something I hadn't factored into my brilliant plan.

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle, mind you. We're talking full-body, shoulders-shaking, tears-in-eyes LAUGHTER that made me feel like I should either join in or offer to workshop better material for next time.

"You want money?" he wheezed between guffaws. "Maybe first you buy better shoes, eh?"

And that's when my fight-or-flight response kicked in, except—because I'm me—it manifested as more of a deer-in-headlights-then-trip-over-own-feet response. As I stumbled backward, my Croc caught on the edge of a display stand, sending approximately 847 packets of beef jerky cascading through the air like meaty confetti.

In the ensuing chaos—as I lay there, covered in teriyaki-flavored shame—Mr. Kim didn't call the cops. Instead, he made me tea. TEA. Earl Grey, served in a chipped mug that said "World's Okayest Speed Walker."

"You seem like you're having bad time," he said, sliding the mug across the counter to where I sat, thoroughly defeated, still picking beef jerky crumbs out of my hair. "Want to talk about it?"

And you know what? I did. I really, really did.

(Though I still maintain that the Crocs were a bold fashion choice, not a failure. Some people just aren't ready for that level of comfort-forward criminality.)

The bar smells like regret and cleaning fluid. A faint mildew tang hovers just under the lemony surface of whatever industrial cleanser they've been using since the Reagan administration. On the jukebox—a real, working jukebox that somehow survived time and irony—Stevie Nicks is singing, and Charlotte is on her third vodka soda, though she's only counting the first two.

"It's not that I don't love him," she says, swirling the straw like she's mixing cement. "It's that he's...he's like a sweater, you know? Warm, comfortable, but...it pills. He's pilled. Emotionally." Her voice breaks, just a little, at the end, and she covers it by sucking loudly on the straw. The ice rattles in the glass.

Across from her, Liz is doing her best to play therapist but keeps slipping into referee. "Right. So you dumped him. To, uh...what, avoid dry-cleaning?"

Charlotte shoots her a look—a blend of wounded and affronted, like a cat falling off a windowsill. "I dumped him because he's boring. And emotionally pilled."

Liz smirks and takes a sip of her beer, which is cheap and unapologetic. It smells faintly metallic, like wet nickels. "You said that already."

"Well, it's true." Charlotte's voice climbs in volume, the way it always does when she's circling a point she doesn't want to land on. "He was *suffocating* me, Liz. Like...like when you wake up in the middle of the night, and the blanket's wrapped around your neck, and for a second you think, 'This is it, I'm being murdered by my own bedding.' You know?"

Liz doesn't know, but she nods anyway because that's her role tonight: the nodding friend. The sober-ish one. "Totally."

Charlotte leans back, her head tilting toward the stained ceiling tiles as if she's appealing to a higher power—or just the fluorescent light flickering above their table. "God, I can't believe I wasted two years on him. Two *years.* That's, like, a master's degree in mediocrity."

Liz coughs into her beer to stifle a laugh, but Charlotte's too far gone to notice. She's launched into a tirade now, her words sharp and sloppy, like broken glass in a velvet bag.

"He never even liked my friends. Or my taste in music. He said my favorite band was 'overrated.' Overrated! Can you believe that? Like, who hurt him? Was it his mom? It was definitely his mom. And his face—"

Liz's eyebrows shoot up. "Careful."

"—his stupid *face.*" Charlotte slams her glass down for emphasis. "Always so...earnest. Like a golden retriever trying to understand quantum physics."

Liz is watching this unravel like a slow-motion car crash—equal parts horrifying and mesmerizing. "So why do you still have his number saved as 'My Love'?"

That stops Charlotte mid-rant. She stares at Liz, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "I...don't," she says, but it's more of a question than a statement.

Liz raises her eyebrows and gestures toward Charlotte's phone, which is lighting up on the sticky table with a notification from Instagram—one of those vague, soul-sucking posts about happiness being a choice.

Charlotte grabs the phone, her fingers fumbling with the screen. "I'll delete it right now," she announces, but instead of navigating to the contacts, her thumb hovers over his name. It's right there at the top of her recent calls, bold and accusatory.

She stares at it for a long moment, the bar noise fading into a soft, ambient buzz. The music changes to something upbeat that doesn't fit the mood at all. Her thumb twitches.

Liz's voice cuts through, low and wary. "Charlotte. Don't."

But Charlotte's already hit the call button, her face twisted into a mix of defiance and desperation. The ringing is deafening, each buzz a countdown to impact.

"Liz," she whispers, her eyes wide and glassy. "What if he doesn't pick up?"

"He will," Liz mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.

And then—click. His voice, low and groggy, crackles through the receiver.

"Hey," Charlotte breathes, suddenly soft and fragile, like she might shatter under her own weight. "It's me."

Liz groans and buries her face in her hands as Charlotte launches into a monologue—half apology, half declaration, all chaos. "I just...I miss you, okay? I miss the way you make pancakes on Sundays and the way you laugh at dumb movies and—and I think I might love you. No, I definitely love you. I've always loved you. Even when you were boring and pilled and wrong about music."

There's a long pause, the kind that feels like it could swallow the world.

Finally, his voice comes through, soft and cautious. "Are you...drunk?"

Charlotte blinks, her mind momentarily blank, like someone pulled the plug on her brain. "No," she says, far too loudly. "Maybe."

Liz, watching this train wreck in real-time, snatches the phone and hangs up.

"What the hell?" Charlotte yelps, her voice rising an octave.

"You're welcome," Liz deadpans, tossing the phone across the table like it's a live grenade.

Charlotte slumps back in her chair, her anger fizzling out as quickly as it flared. For a moment, she just sits there, staring at her empty glass, her face a mosaic of regret and residual vodka.

"I really do love him," she mumbles, almost to herself.

Liz sighs, flagging down the bartender for another round. "I know, babe. But let's wait until morning before we start trying to prove it."

I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.

*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,

is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic

person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Mariposa was seated at a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.

Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.

A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.

Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.

A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.

“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.

Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”

“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.

“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.

“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.

“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.

With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.

Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.

“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.

“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.

“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.

Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”

Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.

The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”

“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.

“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.

Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.

“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”

“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.

Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”

Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.

“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped across the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”

Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”

Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.

Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.

“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.

Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”

The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.

“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.

“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.

Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”

Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.

Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.

“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”

Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.

“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”

“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.

“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.

Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”

Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”

“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.

As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.

*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*

Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24

Tara watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, the way heat always dissipates in accordance with the second law of thermodynamics. She thinks about entropy, how all systems tend toward disorder, how even the careful structures built of love and shared mornings begin to dissolve. James is saying something about needing to talk, his voice carrying that familiar frequency she has learned to recognize, the one that signals emotional turbulence barely concealed by forced calm. The afternoon light through the kitchen window catches the dancing dust between them, suspended in Brownian motion, random and purposeless like the words forming between his pauses.

He says he’s been thinking, and she already feels the framework of their life together starting to fracture. She notices the micro-expressions she once memorized: the subtle twitch in his left eye, the unconscious movements of his hands that betray the effort behind his measured tone. She wants to tell him about quantum entanglement, how two particles remain connected across any distance once they’ve interacted, how they affect each other in ways that defy logic and laws. Maybe if she could explain this, he would understand what it means to try to untangle two lives so deeply intertwined. Instead, she says she knows, because she does. She has known in the quiet, cellular way that bodies know when to change, to divide, to surrender.

The silence between them grows like a living thing, filling the space with its presence. She observes how their breathing no longer syncs, how the rhythm of shared sleep and shared life has fractured into jagged, mismatched patterns. He is explaining about growing apart, about wanting different things, about how love sometimes isn’t enough. The words feel both too simple and too heavy, like trying to map a fractal with straight lines, and she begins to catalog the physicality of pain. Elevated heart rate. Constricted throat. Cortisol and adrenaline spilling into her bloodstream as if preparing her for a battle that isn’t there.

She thinks about binding energy, about how even the strongest atomic bonds can be broken with sufficient force, about how matter cannot be destroyed but only transformed. She wonders what they will become, these two people who have shared a bed and a bathroom, the easy intimacy of familiar routines. She says maybe he’s right, because the scientific method demands she follow the evidence, even when it leads to failure, even when it breaks apart hypotheses that once felt unshakable.

The space between them stretches, expands, an invisible force pulling them apart like galaxies adrift in an accelerating universe. She watches him collect his keys and wallet, small acts of departure rendered monumental in their finality. She thinks about conservation, how nothing is truly lost but only changes form, but the thought feels hollow. When he pauses at the door, she sees him suspended in a moment of wave-particle duality, leaving and not leaving, until the act of observation collapses the uncertainty into fact. He leaves.

She sits alone in the kitchen—her kitchen now—and watches the steam rise from her coffee in precise helical patterns, dissipating into the air as heat always does. She thinks about entropy, about how all systems tend toward disorder, about the inevitable unraveling of even the most careful designs.

For some people, dreams are nebulous nothings that disappear upon awakening, never to be remembered or discussed again. I have always had very vivid dreams. As I got older, my dreams began to encompass a full cast of characters and were so detailed I started writing them down so I could turn them into stories, or simply to remember the bizarre.

Sometimes I felt as if I truly lived only while I slept.

I often cry when I wake up.

Increasingly, dreams are the one place I feel safe and happy. Apparently, I am not alone in this sentiment given the overwhelming worldwide popularity of Lifesadream. Its first iteration years ago was as a virtual reality therapy program used to treat a variety of mental illnesses. Known as DreamTherapy, it incorporated positron emission tomography along with deep transcranial magnetic stimulation and a neuroelectro converter that transformed electric signals to images for review, aiding in more effective, targeted therapy. The success rate was nearly 100%, but even now the cost remains beyond the reach of most.

Subsequently, the makers of DreamTherapy modified it for use in the rehabilitation of criminals and enemies of the state (terrorists) with a program called NeuroRehab. Except in government usage, I doubt NeuroRehab will live beyond the experimental stages given the cost (executions cost pennies and the rise of penal labor camps has diminished interest in costly rehabilitation). Even so, to date, five serial killers, 13,012 rapists and 1,469 school shooters have been reintegrated into society as fully functional members thanks to NeuroRehab.

For some reason, none of those included from the enemy of the state group have survived the transcranial magnetic stimulation. I don't know why. They're still experimenting. Of course, there are plenty of subjects for testing, so I suspect it's only a matter of time before, one way or another, domestic discord is eliminated completely.

When DreamTherapy's proprietary technology patent expired, Lifesadream, a division of Neuralink, combined the existing technologies with an implantable neuronano chip that allows everyone to live in their dreams, or, for a more reasonable price, to relive their most precious memories over and over again.

Last year they introduced the neurocable and I've been trying to participate in the program ever since. Until the neurocable, you could only live in your own mind; but with the neurocable, two can exist in the mind of one.

After months of waiting, hoping and refreshing the waitlist page ad nauseum, three weeks ago I won the Lifesadream lottery. The waitlist has had millions of names since they first went live. So far, some one million people across the globe have entered Lifesadream facilities. In order to accommodate as many people as possible domestically, the U.S. government provided, at low cost to Neuralink, thousands of expropriated libraries and university campuses that had fallen into disuse.

As soon as I got the call, I quit my job and sold our house. Yesterday morning, I signed over power of attorney and our savings to the Lifesadream Foundation. They will use the money to maintain and care for my husband and I as we live out the remainder of our lives in my mind. My dreams. As I look at my husband sitting in his favorite chair, eyes vacant, I cannot wait.

**********

"Are you comfortable, Mrs. Pickering?"

It was evening. I was laying in a soft bed in a room that was probably a professor's office back in the day. The body suit in which they'd dressed me gently massaged my limbs. My husband was in the other bed, sleeping under a white comforter. There was an IV line in his arm, the bag hanging to the left of his bed. Mine was to my right. There were armchairs as well. We were surrounded by nurses and the surgeon we'd met that morning. A machine with various monitors stood between our beds, embedded in the wall and there was a desk with a chair and a monitor near the door. The windows were high up and I could see the sky was a pretty purple that would soon fade to black.

"Yes, thank you."

"Dr. Woburn..."

"Call me Maynard..."

"Dr. Woburn will be inserting the neuronano chip through the nasal cavity. It is painless and relatively quick. We'll start with Mr. Pickering and then we'll insert yours.

"Next, we'll attach the electromagnetic coils to both of you. We will wait until you fall asleep naturally since sedatives might affect your dreams, and then we will connect the neuro cable into the ports we placed above your ears this morning.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Do we ever wake up?"

She glanced at her tablet and said, "You have the lifetime package so we will keep you under until you die of natural causes. We will use the transcranial magnetic stimulator to maintain a state of infinite REM for both you and Mr. Pickering."

"What happens to people who don't have the lifetime package?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"The package. Some choose the End of Life package in which case we put them under and then after 24 hours, we inject them with Pentobarbital. Some, like you, choose the Lifetime package and we keep them until they pass. Some with a partner choose the Until Death Do Us Part package in which case we keep them under until one dies and then awaken the other who can then decide whether to go back under with an end of life package or go home. Depends on the desire and the available funds, of course.

"Some choose the Memory Lane package and run a series of isolated memories for a set period determined by price. At the end of that period they are awakened and go back to their lives. It's a kind of vacation for some people. It's a great stress reliever. I do it once a month."

"If he dies first, will I still dream with him?"

"That is unclear at this time, but it is possible."

"What have others said?"

"At this time, all our clients making use of the neurocable are still in a joint state of REM."

"There haven't been any deaths?"

The nurses exchanged a glance. "At this time, all our clients remain in a state of REM, either alone or with a partner."

"What happens if I die first?"

"As stated in the contract, if the dominant party predeceases the partner, the partner will be removed to our hospice facilities and kept comfortable until their passing."

"What if he dies first?"

"He will be cremated and buried with you upon your expiration."

"So, this is it. I won't see you or this room again?"

"All things being equal, no."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Thank you for all you are doing and will do for us. The world had gotten almost unbearable for us. For me. It was so bad I looked forward to sleeping every night as a short escape. I can't believe we can actually, truly live happily ever after now. It's a dream come true. Literally." I laughed. The nurses smiled.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Pickering?"

I looked over at my husband of 42 years.

"Yes."

**********

"Baby?"

As I slowly awakened, I felt my husband's arms around me, his body strong and warm. I opened my eyes, "Eddie?"

"Morning, baby," he said, kissing me softly. "You wouldn't believe the dream I had. I swear I was dreaming our whole life all night."

"Really?" I said, running a hand through hair that was thick, curly and brown.

"Yeah, it was wild. We had a kid, I started my own business, you taught physics for 30 years and then retired to take care of me because I got early onset Alzheimer's. It was a nightmare! I was so glad when I woke up this morning and it was all just a dream."

Looking into his eyes, I smile. "Me too, my love," I leaned up to kiss him. "Me, too."