In this version, we’re both married. Happily. I have a cat named Jack and you’re not afraid of dogs. We don’t talk of our mothers, not as much. Yours is a feminist, mine a professor of Latin. Your best friend wants to sleep with me despite knowing I’m asexual. You like girls, openly. In this version, trypophobia doesn’t exist so your brain no longer associates clusters of holes with danger. You prefer red meat to any sort of shellfish. I’m a vegetarian with two books forthcoming on how the philosophy of veganism can actually save the planet. There’s a switch embedded into the back of each of our skulls which can be easily toggled for instant-daydreaming but only once a month. Your husband doesn’t tolerate infidelity while my wife has been sentenced to prison for one hundred and thirty years for a crime she did not commit. Once a year in June, we read Joyce together; coming on each other’s faces after every chapter. We feast on our generational wealth, then take up a job sometimes. Just for the fun, you laugh—bestraddling my arms like deathless horses in war amongst mortal men. You continue to research the different types of edible mushrooms in the world while I’ve always been dexterous at eating with chopsticks. I know how to drive. We are the joint owners of a car. The world discusses Proust as the failed writer of six novellas, even in good health. You’re fucking your therapist; I go grocery shopping with mine. And even though I’m asexual, the idea of a certain kind of incest hijacks my amygdala. To the ones who aren’t exactly living a life doing what they love, Bradbury is still recommending suicide. My best friend hasn’t killed himself just yet and yours has finally adopted a girl. I’m translating Nirala into the Finnish which will be containing the future tense. Virgil follows the pilgrim oblivious all this while that Beatrice was nothing but a lie after an afterlife. Both our fathers are dead, having led two salubrious lives. No pink pills. No bloody catheters. In this version, we both raise suspicions over our lack of definitions. Remember me as the blur of a mad crow wheezing past your rearview mirror. In this version, you do. You’re eating a peach from Shillong, but in this version, my hand is restless on one of your knees.