At lunch at a French restaurant on 55th Street, A. said to me, “What are we going to do about Cheyenne?” by which question she was indicating to me a whole slew of scenarios, involving our future, that we hadn’t yet figured out. “We could sell it,” I said, understanding that she was referring to the house. “Or keep it a while and then sell it. Or maybe rent it out, though I don’t know how one would go about doing that. Though I’m sure we could pretty quickly learn. Or we could leave the city altogether, and live out there permanently, once your job goes more fully remote. Only I don’t think either of us is ready to leave New York, is the problem. Even if, before we bought the house, I’d said I was ready to leave.” A. nodded along and expressed agreement with what I’d said, or corroboration of it, though now and then she modified some notion I’d put forth that hadn’t been quite accurate, or clear, or that she might have been in opposition to, and occasionally one of us would say something that made the other of us smile, so that the conversation wasn’t difficult to have, though we didn’t come to any conclusion, nor did we resolve any of the questions that were in our minds, with regard to the subject, though talking about it seemed important anyway, as it was the only way we knew of to reach a decision, even if that decision would be to not make a decision, or to postpone one.