Finally it’s my turn. I go into her room, and I sit down on her bed, and I start rubbing her calves. I know that I should say I love her, and that I’ll miss her. And that in twenty-eight years I can throw her the best eighty-fifth-birthday party. Then, after that, maybe sometime we’ll explode in one big fireball, so that neither of us would ever have to experience what it’d be like for one of us to have to live without the other. But she knows all of that.
