She searched me carefully, as with a scene on is asked to memorize; that is, as if she might never see me again. 'Thank you for a pleasant walk, Asgar.'

'It was pleasant.'

'Yes.'

'I'm grateful you could come Alice.'

'It's been nice.'

Dull, ordinary words for people who want the moment to die. And perhaps, I did. It was too awful to think that I had preserved my heart so long ago and that now, years later, I had stuck it in my chest, smelling of formaldehyde, and found it too sorry and shriveled to work. But it's a common tale. Isn't there a statue, in Shakespeare, of a long-dead queen who comes to life before the eyes of her mourning king? The king rejoices and repents, but what does he do the next day? Does he remember how she sang off-key as she brushed her hair, how she screeched at servants?