While in bed, a woman’s lover asks about her ex. She can’t say much, but she eventually spills out the whole messy story of their breakup. Back when it was still fresh, she’d hunt him down to fight him, screaming at him while he filled up cars at his gas station job, tramping through rainstorms to find his car on a side street and drag him out of it. The last time they spoke was at a restaurant. He devoured his dinner and hers too, and she was stuck with the bill. The woman is reluctant to say that it’s over between them, although every logical sign points to a clean break: they haven’t spoken in a year, he lives in another city, and he’s married. She should be happy he’s gone. She has someone new, not to mention a promising translating job. One day, the woman checks her post office box and finds a letter from her ex. She thinks it’s a check for the hundreds of dollars he owes her. She tears it open and skims it. It’s a French poem, carefully copied in his handwriting. She tucks the paper back in the envelope. After work, she scrutinizes it. He included a return address. Does he expect a response? The woman picks out words and phrases, putting together the meaning of the poem. It’s a heartrending tale of two lovers. In the last stanza, they reunite in death after a long separation. The woman tries to understand his intentions. Does he want to get back together? Or maybe he thinks their time together is over, at least in this life. That night, the woman puts the poem to her nose, hoping to feel close to him. The paper has no trace of his scent—no possibility of anything more than ink and crooked, copied lines.