Celia nodded. “He moved out here for business a few years ago. We've become close. He... he knows who I am. He supports me.” “What is chronic obstructive—?” “Emphysema, more or less,” she said. “From smoking. Do you still smoke? You should stop. Right now.” I shook my head, having long ago given it up. “They have treatments to slow down the process. I can live a normal life for the most part, for a while.” “And then what?” “And then, eventually, it will become difficult to be active, hard to breathe. When that happens, I won’t have much time. All told, we’re looking at ten years, give or take, if I’m lucky.” “Ten years? Youre only forty-nine.” “I know.” I started crying. I couldn’t help it. “You're making a scene,” she said. “You have to stop.” “T can’t,” I said. “OK,” she said. “OK.” She picked up her purse and threw down a hundred-dollar bill. She pulled me out of my chair, and we walked to the valet. She gave him her ticket. She put me in the front seat of the car. She drove me to her house. She sat me on the sofa. “Can you handle this?” she said. “What do you mean?” I asked her. “Of course I can’t handle it.” “If you can handle this,” she said, “then we can do this. We can be together. I think we can ... we can spend the rest of our lives together, Evelyn. If you can handle this. But I can’t, in good conscience, do this to you if you don’t think you'll survive it.” “Survive what, exactly?” “Losing me again. I don’t want to let you love me if you don’t think you can lose me again. One last time.”