On Seventh Avenue in Brooklyn, a couple having two conversations at once.
Him: Kurt Cobain died almost eight years ago. I read it on the wall in the restaurant.
Her: You and I might die tomorrow.
Him: If someone had asked me, I would have said he died four years ago, tops.
Her: Do you have a will?
Him: I have a way. Anyway, Kurt Cobain was a genius. I still remember the first time I heard Smells Like Teen Spirit.
Her: I don’t have a will either.
Him: Neither did Kurt Cobain. But I’m pretty sure he wrote a suicide note.
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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