He’s knocking on my door. He’s holding a boatload of roses. I’m letting him inside. “I’m sorry,” he says. He takes off his shoes and tries on mine. “I have to say,” I say, “I have not seen you in years.” “Last May,” he says. “Last May?” I say. “I was your waiter,” he says. “You were my waiter?” I say. “You were spirited,” he says. “But I thought,” I say, and my thought I do not finish. A cool breeze opens my home’s windows. My wife arrives with flowers the same as the ones in the vase. Same shade, same shape. His wife knocks on the front door with more flowers. Flowers in her pockets. Flowers in her hair. Our house houses flowers it didn’t house the day before. None of us talk about how they’re struggling to breathe.