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The semester prior to his suicide, my confidant and I spent afternoons lounging around on a defective, footless sofa I had borrowed without any intention of returning. I was either going to donate it to Goodwill or plunder the cushions and trash the frame, leaving it in a dumpster somewhere to collect vile rot. Early that same autumn, right as the heat was lifting, the owner, a classmate of ours who had held on to the sofa’s feet, had been exposed to our graduate program as morally corrupt in ways that were so hysterical that his sins appeared at once devastating and cosmic. For that reason, and because he had bullied my confidant the previous academic term, during our first year as unofficial residents of Central New York, I had an intense desire for the owner to endure punishments of every order, whether severe or frivolous or petty.

But so on. The dusty air blasted through the expired filters my scummy landlord had lied about changing, while down on the sofa we deluded ourselves into thinking we could somehow switch gears from digressive conversation into mature productivity. That did