You remember it was not long after that that I finished the novel about a couple not unlike us but not quite like us. You remember not taking any of it personally exactly but it feeling exactly personal. You remember believing in it. And you remember that it was not just because you loved it and not just because you loved me. That is the thing about fiction, I think. I’m not trying to make a point here, and yet. We were on the mend. You were all right, for the time being. Max was selling old copies of Playboy, was nationally ranked in chess, would run for fun, miles and miles around the Park.
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