In one version of things, he takes her hand, and stands up, and leads her into an adjoining room.

Then there’s the version of events where his skin and hers peels away and they both crumble into a tangle of fibers.

Then there’s the one where the room falls away, like a storm of butterflies, and they’re somewhere else, a star scape full of boxes.

All of these things happen, and none of them do. It’s all in her head, she’s in her head, he’s in her head, he is her.

He picks up a small, dusty box, full of dreams and paperclips inscribed with the name “Phil.”

“I didn’t realize how much you’d brought in!”