She says he isn't as funny as he used to be. About fifty percent
funny, maybe less. He thinks, but doesn't say, no, it's you,
depressed, you don't find anyone funny anymore. She thinks,
doesn't say, I've always been depressed. I've never found
funny—except you, once.
Two’s calculation of death over time: Ten thousand bodies a thousand years ago is five hundred bodies when Columbus lands, perplexed by the undergrowth, is one hundred when the railroad runs through, is ten when anyone you’ve known was born, is, this year, one. One comes home, briefcase in hand, sobbing.