Yes, I do. I still do. I thought of her the other day and then right away I think of the first scene in The Stranger. I remember the dust on that road like it was yesterday. That scene is clearer to me, and will always be clearer to me than her funeral. That distance Meursault felt means more to me than any feeling I can still find for her, and I've gone through every last drawer. But then I think of how frozen-stone cold her wrist was. I was smart to touch it. Otherwise, I would be unsure the heat ever properly turned off.

I think of her as not being separate. I think of her as though she were a former personality that I never quite left, that I've seen news of in the back of an alumni magazine, that I thought I saw once in the street, that I always mean to go back to, that I imagine, without expectation, not meaning to, certainly not intending to, but, genetically doomed and altered and modified, I have... I have or I will. It's not clear. I think that's how I left it with myself when last we spoke.