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Mary says I’m unpredictable. I tell her, actually, I’m lonely. We go to the graveyard together and pick our favorite flowers that others have left on graves. Dahlias, begonias, crocuses. We do this whenever the world feels too big, holding a token of someone else’s grief as if connected to our own. She gives me a handful of rhododendron and larkspur. I lie awake at night and count the buds. One, two, three. We go to the park on Sunday afternoon and eat peanut butter sandwiches. We go to the coffee shop and Mark’s there. Mark says he’s read 300 books in the past year, including every holy text in its original language. His arms thin as bone. He says in a past life, he was standing on the platform at Atlantis when they destroyed the world. Mary and I laugh at this in the car but he seemed so sure. With the window rolled down, Mary’s hair is like a bloody towel flapping in the breeze. I think I could have loved her in a past life, but can’t imagine cities falling into the sea. We toss the flowers out the window. I tell Mary, a boy I played football with died yesterday. I tell her how jealous I used to be of his pretty blue eyes. She wipes away my tears. Everything feels different for a while after that; we eat in silence, picking the arugula from our plates. She asks what it would be like if our memory reset each morning. I tell her I’d still find her. She says she’s not so sure.