That time I bought a cocktail ring at a flea market in Maine, you panicked afraid people would think we were engaged. We were engaged. You proposed outside the haunted corn maze among the hidden colonies of mice and chinch bugs, the ghosts of pilgrims past. Did you forget? We drank all day, serial killed five lobsters by freezing them then plunging knives between their eyes, drove for hours past farm stands, fields, gawking at trees like assholes who never left the city. This was before the trips to Philadelphia, the hours you spent in hospital waiting rooms watching disaster movies on cable about meteors hitting Manhattan, and roving packs of wolves laying claim to the abandoned public libraries. Before I stood down the hall and watched another world end with a sputter, mechanical messengers announcing it with a chorus of beeps and gasps, stammers and silence. Maybe we knew then that was the best it would get. Both of us waking each day to the sunrise, me sitting up in the night listening for sounds outside the house.