Joan called me on a Friday to let me know that she was finally going to art school. After years and years of allowing people to talk her out of it for a myriad of reasons, she finally bit the bullet, told everyone to f*** off, and applied. I sat on my couch in my apartment, listening to her sounds of joy as she described her classes and spoke of her hopeful attempts to make friends with her fellow students. I sighed a little too loudly, causing Joan to pause in mid-speech. What, she asked me. Huh, I replied, knowing damn well what I did. You just sighed , she added with a little force in her voice. I’m sorry . . . am I boring you or something? Joan, I wheedled, I’m fine, just go on with what you were talking about. No, she yelled, I wanna know right now what’s making you sigh like that, Paul. She fell silent and I held my breath. Is this . . . because of last week, she asked in a whisper. I felt my heart beat a little too fast; thank god she couldn’t hear it. Suddenly, she began