She laughs some more, and between her giggles, she says, “I was . . . kidding, Eli. You don’t snore.” “What?” I say, lifting to a sitting position on the bed. “You were fucking kidding?” “Yes.” She laugh-cries some more, her handle on the humor slipping further and further as she attempts to gather herself, but it’s not working. I snag my phone from the nightstand and shoot a quick text to Taters. Eli: You fucker! I bought Breathe Right strips. I rip the strip off my nose and toss it to the ground as my eyes water from the pull of the adhesive just as my phone dings with a response. While
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