Now a look of kind exasperation flashes on her face.

“First off, it’s yours. Second off, you’ve got a whole lot of them over there.”

She points at a bookshelf, where there are at least twenty more.

“Do I keep a diary or something?” I ask, thinking that would be incredibly useful.

“As far as I know, you buy a new one every time you get a good idea or read something about gratitude journaling, then you either don’t write in it until you think the idea is fully baked, not wanting to waste any pages, or you write in it for about seven pages and then never touch it again. Then you need a new one the next time you have a good idea, since the other one’s already sullied.”

My mouth curves in a weary twist. “I seem like a lot of fun.”

“Oh, it’s endearing,” she says with a loving shrug. “The candles, on the other hand, are out of control.”

She opens up a cabinet, and out pours the pungent—but nice—scent of about thirty candles. It’s the source of that scent I smelled when I first arrived.

“What the hell?” I ask. “I’m like a hoarder of nice ideas.”

“I don’t know the story with those candles, exactly,” she says. “You buy them because you love the scent, then you never want to waste them so you burn the cheap ones from the supermarket.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You’re joking.”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir.”

I stare at the candles. What is wrong with me?

But as I think about it, I realize it’s not that far off from me in my real life. My therapist once told me I have a scarcity mindset.

“Here you are,” says Kiera, putting down a glass in front of me.

“Oh.”

“What is it?”

I flush a little, embarrassed by my knee-jerk objection. “Nothing!”

“No, go on, what is it?”

“I thought it would be in a wineglass. I usually … I’m sorry, this is great.” I shake my head, truly baffled. “God, what’s wrong with me? I’ve become a total asshole! In every reality!” I slap my hands onto my cheeks.

“You’ve a bit of a stick up your arse in your real life as well, don’t ya?” asks Kiera, hands on her hips.

I have no words for what an idiot I feel like. I don’t even care. I’m just used to it back home. Home where I’m used to agreeing with powerful producers that the nose on this Sancerre is truly divine and that it’s so much better out of a Zalto.

I admire her for not getting activated. For not being sensitive. Instead, she manages to look amused.

“I’m sorry,” I say.