He looks at the baggy. It was this tiny package of material to which most of his text messages were addressed, to whom he complained about work, this package of material that used to wear all the makeup sitting at home in their apartment, who used to make him late to movies, who hogged the bathroom sink, who gave him blowjobs. He can’t believe it. Alicia, contained in the same sort of thick plastic bag that beads would come in if you ordered them online? No. He can believe in the moon landing, but not this.
