She told him her new boyfriend made her laugh and that she hadn’t laughed in she didn’t know how long. And he said, No-one can make you laugh without you giving them permission, and she said the new boyfriend had her permission eternally, and he asked if he had gained the permission before the laugh. What laugh? she asked. The initial laugh, he said, because any permission granted thereafter would not count. I hate you, she said. And I hate stories about how you laugh, he said. But my hatred is more meaningful, she said, because I hate your entire person, your entire history, even our years together, whereas you only hate a story that contains a man you’ve had to tell yourself you hate. Then you hate yourself, he said. I used to hate myself because I was with you, she said, but now that I’m not, I’ve forgiven myself. Then how can you hate our time together? he asked. I hate our time together because it is symbolic of everything I used to hate about myself—a hate that will never disappear, not with forgiveness or holy water, she said, and he didn’t say anything because he wanted her to say more, but she didn’t, and he offered her a piece of gum and she accepted. I’m glad you still like gum, he said. Oh yeah, gum I could never hate. Maybe we should have chewed more gum, he said. No, then I would hate gum too. But you just said you could never hate gum. That was before gum and you started to have a close relationship. I think I’m growing to hate you too, he said. Yes, she said, don’t you see how fun this is?