“Yeah, but do you want people to get stuck on not knowing what something is right away?”

“Ros, can you not leave crusted-on oatmeal dishes around the house? This is how we get ants.”

“What if I change that part to ‘tiny shrimp’? Is that too redundant?” Ros asked.

“I mean, ‘tiny shrimp’ isn’t very erotic. Do you want it to be erotic?” Touchstone said.

“Touchstone, is this flannel yours, or Ros’s? You know what, I’m just going to divide everything into piles according to person, and everyone can then deal with their own pile.”

“I wanted it to feel, like, miraculous,” Ros said. “Like, there’s this whole world up there that you didn’t even know existed. Does it feel that way to you?”

“I guess I feel that way. I’m just sort of hung up on the opening line,” Touchstone said. “I like the part about basal hollows.”

(I liked that part, too.)

I turned the sink on and started furiously scrubbing the dishes.

“Celia, what do you think?” said Ros, and I pretended I couldn’t hear them over the running water.

“Celia,” said Touchstone, louder.

“Celia!” said Ros, and I turned off the sink. “Do you really need to flip out about the state of the house right this very second?”

“I’m not flipping out,” I said. “We just… promised Henry we’d take care of his house, and the summer’s not even a third of the way through. I don’t want him to come back and see that we destroyed it. Ros, have you been watering the plants?”

Silence. I filled up a pitcher.

“We won’t wreck the house,” Ros said. “We can clean up all the rest of the night, I promise. Just. Can you please come here and take a look at this?”

“Fine.”

I approached the counter. I read through “Love Song” again. I liked it more this time. I still liked the part about basal hollows. I liked the opening line about the desert. I liked the part about furred flying squirrels. I agreed with what Ros said, that there was something about it that felt miraculous. But as I read, there were things I didn’t like, too.

I didn’t like that I couldn’t write poetry.

I didn’t like that I didn’t know the names of plants, including the dramatically wilting one I’d just watered.

I didn’t like that this poem was for Jess Orlando, and not for me.

I didn’t like that I felt devastated by this love poem, and also jealous, and petty. I didn’t like that I couldn’t just be happy for Ros, who seemed much more alive than they had in a long time. I didn’t like that my feelings for them were getting in the way of my being a good friend.