The train’s repetitive click-clack wakes her every night.

“Did you hear that noise,” she asked the morning after she first stayed the night, nose pressed against my cheek, head sunk deep into her pillow.

“It was the train,” I replied, feeling myself fall in love.

“Charming. Does it come through here every night?”

“It does.”

“Great. You’re lucky I like you.”

I propped myself up on my elbow, glanced around the room: wine bottles, condom wrappers, and empty chocolate boxes. “We should do something else some time.”

“Why?” She climbed on top of me.

She moved in with me several weeks later, complaining about the train. Then we started to fight, and our nightly bingeing on wine, sex, and chocolate gave way to heavy silence and passive aggression.

As our relationship worsened she took to walking the train tracks at night.

“I’m not going to kill myself, K, relax,” she said.

I was unconvinced. So I walked with her, behind her, like a scolded but loyal pet. I bought her expensive earrings, tried to cheer her up. She pushed me in front of the train.

Now she sleeps in my bed, wakes with a smile whenever the train rumbles past.