"I find it unfair," I said.

They nodded. Wrote something down.

"All this, you know?" I gestured around us, motioning toward the city's crumbling infrastructure, the gallons of curdled milk, upturned asphalt, weeping divorcees, the idea of a car—thought as a vehicle, as movement. I pointed at the light fixtures, which were faulty prior to installation. The love of my life refused to acknowledge me because I mispronounced their name. I tried forgetting, or some iteration of it. The love of my life? Ha! My teeth began to rot in numerical order, and the radio wavered as though it had somewhere better to be. There was a certain tedium with which I mentioned these things.

"I can't tell if it's over, yet," I said. Across town, a telephone wire snapped in half like strings on a precious instrument.

.

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