As we were walking down the stairs in my beloved’s apartment building on our way to our morning coffee, we noticed that the front door of one of the apartments was wide open, and then we noticed that the front door to the building was wide open, as well. There was a van with its back open in the street. Both of us had a funny feeling. At the front door we met a man we had seen only a few times before, and he told us that one of my beloved’s neighbors had died early in the morning. And then we saw two fellows carrying a coffin down the stairs. We said goodbye to the man and hurried away. The neighbor was ninety years old. Over the years, he had one cancer after another, and the last one killed him. He was a grumpy old man, but I kind of liked him. We talked about all sorts of things on a number of occasions, and thus I learned several years ago that he was my senior by as many years as my beloved was my junior. The symmetry made us closer, at least in my own mind. Besides, both of my parents died at ninety. Enough, though. It seems that I cannot stop babbling about myself.