They met on their wedding night.


(During the ceremony, both had remained veiled.)

“Pandora,” she said, extending a hand.

“Schrödinger.”

*     *     *
They met in the basement of the Records Building, where they labored in different departments.

That day, fingers brushing, they’d converged on the same filing cabinet.

The same drawer.

*     *     *
They were both famous adventurers.

And—to begin with—bitter rivals.

They met, in person, for the first time (acrimonous letters did not count) inside an Egyptian tomb.

Whose treasures had already been taken.

When their wild accusations had been exhausted, only their shared disappointment remained.

Empty sarcophagus. Empty.

So they lay inside it together.

*     *     *
The box contained a question.

“Yes,” he whispered.

*     *     *
“Already engaged,” she said, and pushed the ring away.

*     *     *
A night in.

“It’s ... Canadian bacon,” said Schrödinger, puzzled, as he raised the cardboard flap.

“But that’s not what we ordered,” groused Pandora.

*     *     *
Their first home!

Down the ramp, the movers wheeled a hundred cardboard containers: hers and his, a jumble.

*     *     *
Dishes (not broken).

Lamp (upside down).

Knick-knacks (broken).

*     *     *
Empty box.

Empty box.

“Do you remember?” asked Schrödinger, opening yet another, “all those times we never met?”

*     *     *
Their first cat, only 5, was struck by their sedan when Schrödinger backed out of the driveway.

No.

Their second, 21, died of kidney failure.

The third …

*     *     *
“No cats,” she decreed (for she was violently allergic).

*     *     *
In their garden, they planted seeds in parallel beds. Both preferred introspective species. But while Pandora was partial to the somber ones: Sorrow, Depression, and Ennui, Schrödinger favored the manic varieties: Self-Loathing, Hypochondria, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

“What ugly flowers,” they agreed.

*     *     *
Old take-out in the back of the fridge.

Way, way back.

(No labels.)

“What are we eating?” she wanted to know.

But he had no idea.

*     *     *
When Pandora was dead, killed in childbirth, Schrödinger threw himself across her body and wept.

“I appreciate your grief, sir,” said the obstetric surgeon briskly. “But your baby may still be alive.”

Then she lifted her scalpel—the arbitrator of all questions—and pushed Schrödinger authoritatively to the side.

“Let’s find out.”

*     *     *
“I’m sterile,” said Schrödinger.

*     *     *
“Please look at my back,” he said. “See if you can find anything there.”

“Pus,” she reported, popping a whitehead open.

“Again,” he begged.

“Blood,” she said.

“Again!”

*     *     *
A package!

*     *     *
A delivery from the Crematorium—Schrödinger’s ashes.

*     *     *
A new sculpture for the foyer—cubist.

*     *     *
Whips and handcuffs.

Six walls. One key.

In the basement, close to the water heater (though they were always louder than the water heater), they had installed a cage.

No safe words.

*     *     *
A diagnosis.

*     *     *
Two months to live.

*     *     *
Twins.

*     *     *
Every Sunday.

When they began, all of the sections were blank. But as the morning wore away they filled in every square.

“Three letters,” she prompted him. “A device for storage.”

*     *     *
An envelope!

*     *     *
A letter from her lawyer, describing a proposed division of their assets.

As if—he scoffed—that would stand.

As if he didn’t have a lawyer too.

*     *     *
“Remember Paris?” said the birthday card.

He did.

So she leaned, soft, against the kitchen counter—the sink, beside them, like a proxy Seine—and their lips met, slow.

As if it were the first time.

*     *     *
Ding Dong!

Their children—all seven—were returning for Christmas.

*     *     *
Ding! Ding!

Into their cul-de-sac, the firetruck raced, alarm bells reverberating—too late, too late.

Everything in ashes.

*     *     *
How are the decades measured? Like this:

Dead cats, new graves: Him, her, him, him, him, her, them (two at once, bleak day), her, her, her.

Each time: a loss, incalculable. A future, unthinkable.

*     *     *
A new kitten!

*     *     *
As Schrödinger’s dementia progressed, each new day brought new surprises.

Pandora?

Who was Pandora?

*     *     *
But she was patient. Always.

*     *     *
Where are the keys?

(Because she snapped, every day. Here she was, snapping.)

Where did you put them?

“Can’t remember,” he said.

*     *     *
In the litter box, of course.

Again.

No need to ask.

*     *     *
Their anniversary.

Swollen joints.

It hurt to move one finger. It hurt to move all of them. But she had managed to wrap it, all the same: a tiny package, the paper neat.

When she set it in his lap, his eyes remained dull.

But inside, she explained—did he understand?—was everything …

*     *     *
... Everything, he explained.

(For she was in there somewhere, he knew, beneath her slack expression.

Even if the doctors didn’t think so.)

Everything, he said, that was and wasn’t: Paris and Egypt; the cage and the pizzas; the sculptures and the broken lamps; every pimple and every kiss; that day—that one: the day on which they had almost met, for the first time, but were ultimately prevented; every flower they had ever planted, in the same dirt, over the bones of the animals that they had cared for; the crosswords and the children and the cancer and the fire.

*     *     *
...Would he like to open it?