She’s looking at herself in the mirror, and he knows this is bad news. I hate the parts you like about me, she says. Then he packs his bags.

The High Priest of the Stoics watches the glass of milk tip over. He’s surprised by the emotion he feels. What’s happening to me? he wonders.

We drifted toward each other, very slowly, like dumb continents, and when my friends would ask why, I’d say, She looks a lot like my mother.