I wondered whether all things in life make an impression, even subliminal? She seemed to believe so. When we were still covered in morning sheets she talked about her hundred different me’s, and that it was still possible to become them all.

We could have been living in Berkeley CA, yes. I could have had another child by now yes. Perhaps in a third life she is dead, or filled with different choices. Perhaps it was then that I knew that me leaving her didn’t have that much to do with us, so much as it had to do with her. She was leaving me, molecule by molecule. I perhaps should have shut her up with kisses. Or pillows.

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