"It's fine to feel this way," she says, as she chops the onion for the stir fry. "It happens to everyone from time to time." Her tears fall flat on her thumbs. I stand by the open window and light one of her cigarettes out of habit. I tell her about the way I feel and she just nods. The skillet yells out in agony and I smell our dinner. "I have all the symptoms of a midlife crisis," I say, "I'm on fire." I want her to give me more direction. A map. A silver compass. But she doesn't. She gives me food and we listen to elastic beats from her stereo while the sun drops like a penny into the hillside behind her house. "It's fine," I whisper, while I walk home. I make up a song that distracts me from myself. I sing it to the moon.