We can say there was never an end to it, that it went on and over, on and over. But was there a time before it, before this? Or was it always already concrete and sinew?

That’s beautiful, he said and strokes his son’s head. Or was it his daughter’s? Or was it a dream he had while he was passed out on the couch and she was at her mother’s funeral? They had argued about this, about the memory, and made love afterwards and she slapped him as she left. It was funny but he was tired and bored.

In the end there was a very promising beginning, and if his dog hadn’t gone deaf, or was it the cat going blind, or the fish turned upside in the yard sale bought aquarium, he might’ve gotten up to draw the blinds and stop making a show of it.

There’s a talent to this, she said.