We were sitting at the bar on the ninth floor. No alcohol served after dark––and it was always after dark. I watched two men stumble across the dance floor, arms entwined, faces slack with boredom. The pianist plowed through a joylessly jaunty tune, the musical equivalent of a man dancing at gunpoint. My drinking companion grinned.

She’s not into you, Tom. She doesn’t love you. You can’t force someone to love you by doing them favors.

Say my daughter and her boyfriend meet again. If they have a child, will it be Lucas? The odds are astronomically against it. If it doesn’t happen, Lucas will die without ever being born.

The real enemy of genius is the router in the hallway.

Cassidy and I wouldn’t be friends if we met today. She’s blunt, even when she shouldn’t be. She’s cynical to the point of perpetual gloom. Her interest in culture begins and ends with fashion magazines—hence the gloom. She’s still the best friend I’ve ever had. We’re there for each other in a way no one else is. That’s what counts, not the music she listens to or the books she doesn’t read.

Everything changes, nothing disappears. Tom said that to me once, I don’t remember when. But this will disappear. Even now, the Leah and Amy in these photos are gone, never to return. Who will take their places?