The Cicadas Still Sing, but the Old Friend Is Gone

By our fiftieth cold war, I got petty and listed every luxury gift Oliver had given me over the years on a resale app. The guy who came to check the items looked them over for a long while, then couldn't help laughing out loud. "Ma'am, it's Balenciaga, not Bala-shenga. It's Versace, not Ver-sake. And this one, it's Gucci, not Goochie..." I stared blankly at those clumsy, ridiculous knockoff names. Because I had trusted him, I had gone a full eight years without ever looking closely.