She spreads her coat on the floor and invites two kids to squash up on it for a story. Raindrops squeeze from the coat into the carpet, as the pages of the picture book flip.
I head deep into the belly of the store, which is full of glitter, stickers, crafts, and lines as long as intestines.
He says that after a tragedy people shouldn't ask 'why,' they should ask 'how.'
They use arguing as a strategy of escapism. If they're full of outrage over one thing or another, they can avoid dealing with other emotions and underlying problems.
"What do you do?" they ask him. "I think of myself as a philosopher," he says, and seems to mean it. As he is silent for most of the evening, and gives brief, vague replies at other times, it's difficult to determine what he thinks about.
He wants to grieve on his own. But he's also terrified of being alone at a time like this.
We're going to pretend that there's no reason (and maybe there is no conscious reason) that we haven't seen each other in a while.