“She likes you,” her little dog said. “But here’s what’s going to happen: sometime soon she’s going to offer to make you soup. She’ll ask your favorite kind. You’ll tell her. Then she’ll show up with groceries and wine and you guys will cook your favorite soup and drink nice wine. You’ll sit down to eat but you’ll die. I’ve seen her do it countless times.”

“Why? You said she likes me.”

“She does. But like will turn to love which will eventually turn to hate. Kind of makes sense if you think about it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I like you too…. She’ll be back soon. So just act normal.”

I did.

“Know what,” her voice was sincere. “Let’s make dinner tomorrow. Why not soup?”

I glanced down at her little dog, which was avoiding eye contact.

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“Clam chowder,” I said confidently, knowing that clam chowder takes all day.

“Great. I’ll take the day off. Clam chowder takes all day, you know?”

I was somehow okay with such an extended death ritual. Her previous boyfriends probably hadn’t received such preferential treatment.

We smiled at each other. Her little dog probably rolled its eyes.