I see two scenes beside each other.

In one we are walking through ankle-deep snow, alone, trudging to the edge of a clearing. The air is still except for the smoke from our mouths. You stop behind me, and ask me.

The other has happened. We are sitting underneath an ad on a rumbling subway car. I see our reflection in the dark window across from us. The sign reads ‘DIVORCE’ in large block letters.

I talked to Ms. Z in the ceramics room.

“Why the hell are you worried about that now?” she asks while carefully loading the lopsided pinch pots and drooping pagodas into the kiln. She said she’s never known what being in love feels like, and she’s afraid to.