Lazily, I lift myself from the couch; its deadly embrace makes it difficult to get up. Finally, I am free; I walk myself over to the refrigerator, open it, get out a beer, shut it, walk back to the couch, and hug it hard. I sleep. Twelve hours later I’m dead. What the hell happened.

The articles of our relationship seem to be scattered about my room in no discernible pattern, but if you look hard enough you start to decipher a web of sorts. The gifts, the notes, the letters are all put in certain places so that I can walk anywhere, be anywhere in my room and still be reminded of you. I don’t really know why I do it. I put the pumpkin we dressed up on one nightstand, the picture you gave me to quell my fears on the other. I put all our notes, all our letters in a drawer,...