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We’ll keep you in our secret hearts, and hold you there so tight, You’ll dwell in loving memory, a dearly cherished light.

Wouldn’t it be nice if someone remembered how pretty and smart and funny I was, maybe if I’d had children they would’ve inherited my talents, whatever those are, and my wisdom could’ve been passed on to the next generation: “Remember to exhale gently in order to puff out your lips when you’re being photographed, my dear daughter.” But nature only cares about preserving and perpetuating the species, it couldn’t care less about individuals, and the fact is that nature actually prefers for individuals to live as briefly as possible, so that new generations can take over faster and evolution can speed up, which is an advantage in the struggle for existence.

“The laws of nature are in direct conflict with our individual interests,” Epsilon said. “Isn’t that what I’ve always told you?” I asked him. Ever since Stein died, Epsilon had his nose buried in a book. “What are you reading?” I asked. “I’m reading what Schopenhauer has to say about death,” Epsilon said. “I’m trying to make peace with the fact that Stein’s gone.” “But you’re religious,” I said. “No, I’m not,” Epsilon said. “Oh. So you’re hoping to find some other, enduring meaning for Stein?” I asked. Epsilon nodded. “Something like that.” “Does Schopenhauer have anything useful to say?” I asked. “Well, the part where he says that Stein will continue on as an expression of the world’s will seems a bit much,” Epsilon said, “but the thought that he’ll live on in the species of Dog, there may be something to that.” “So if I imagine a dog in a garden a thousand years ago, standing there eating grass as though this is the solution to all its problems, and then a dog standing there eating grass today, it would in a way be the same dog? That’s not as comforting as you might think. Stein was Stein, after all.” “Schopenhauer claims you have to overcome the idea of Stein as an individual,” Epsilon said, “you have to start identifying him with the totality, because as a part of the totality he’ll live on as Dog for a very long time.”

Perhaps I should stop seeing myself as an individual and start identifying myself with the totality, but I just can’t do that, I’m about as far away from the totality as you can get. But maybe it’s not too late. I let myself imagine that someone might notice me on the way to the store. But what would I do if that happened, probably nothing, and whoever it is might be disappointed by what they see. I’ve never heard of anyone being impressed by nothing, after all, and I don’t like to disappoint people.

I have to look through the peephole for a long time before I go out. But I’m not complaining. It’s worse for those who have monocles because their vision is going. I wait until all the neighbors on my floor and the floors above have gone out, and the outer door on the first floor has closed a few times, and then I can go out too. I don’t shop on the weekends, when too many people are out and about, and Epsilon is at home. I creep down the stairway, then hurry past the neighbors’ doors and mailboxes. One time my name was on a mail-order catalogue and I almost bought “the hilarious, one-of-a-kind plastic moose head that sings when you move, guaranteed to make you laugh for years and years to come.” But Epsilon prevented it.

When I step outside, I force myself to look up. Nice sun, I think, before looking down at the trash blowing around in the gutter. It’s been a month since the superintendent’s obituary appeared in the newspaper.

“He died an unnatural death,” I said. “Sorry to hear that,” Epsilon said, but he seemed more upset that that stubborn zipper on his jacket was stuck. “He should still be glad that he reached the average life span,” I said.

But now I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore. The courtyard of our building is a mess, and even though I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, I’m still surprised to find a half-eaten cupcake in a hedge.

There are two young mothers with baby carriages sitting on the grass in front of the building, and even though I’m staring at the asphalt less than usual today, they don’t notice me, which is probably just as well, since I saw on TV that people don’t say “hello” anymore, but instead ask “what’s up?” and I just wouldn’t feel comfortable with that.

I follow the sidewalk past the large strip of grass between the buildings and then turn onto the gravel path leading between a line of trees, where the Østmarka forest ends, and then there’s just fifty meters or so until I come out on the other side. After that, I walk along the hill past the church, which looks more like a swimming hall, and head for the grocery store. I’m walking pretty fast, but I don’t sweat anymore these days.

There’s a senior center over the bridge behind the grocery store, but I pretend it’s a motorcycle club or a dance hall or something I wouldn’t care about anyway. I took dance lessons when I was twelve. Everyone wanted to dance with the lovely Ellisiv, the other kids lined up and took turns. And sometimes, when they least expected it, she’d tip her wheelchair back a little to startle them. I always danced alone. For half an hour I’d be the girl and for the other half hour I’d be the boy.

It’s cooler inside the grocery store than it is outside. They’ve only just opened. Actually, I prefer it when there are other customers in here, so I don’t attract attention. I usually buy what other people buy, it’s nice to have boiled cod for dinner if the woman in front of me at the checkout is also having boiled cod. “We’re not the only ones eating cod today,” I say to Epsilon, knowing he appreciates this.

I pick a few apples from the fruit display. Ever since Chernobyl, I always peel Epsilon’s apples so his brain won’t be affected by any trace of radioactivity. My own apples I just buff on my skirt. I find the cheese, Epsilon likes brown gjetost. I prefer strawberry jam, but jam jars are impossible to open. And when it comes to jars, Epsilon is no help at all. I also like pickles. Then I realize that I could ask an employee to open the jar for me, and I could just screw the lid back on lightly for the trip home, and so I find the jam aisle. There they are: jar upon jar, stretching from floor to ceiling, and even when I put my hands on my hips and lean back, I can’t see to the top of the shelf. They all look like they have a screw lid, though, so I just pick one at random.

I’m frustrated because both of the store’s employees are standing at their checkout counters, and I’m the only customer in the store. I don’t want either of them to feel that I’ve rejected them. But neither one seems to notice me, so I choose the boy. The girl is probably here just to fill a legal quota, from the looks of her. I put my groceries on the counter and the boy keeps talking to the girl as he scans them. He picks up the jam and beeps it across, but I don’t have the courage to ask him to open it. He doesn’t tell me how much it costs, but I can see the number on the screen. When I give him my money, I touch the palm of his hand, but he doesn’t notice. I brought a net bag with me, I won’t ask him for one of the grocery bags under the counter or wonder what else he’s keeping down there. I just pack my groceries into my bag and go. And if I was kidnapped five minutes later, and the cops came by and showed him my picture, the boy would say he’d never seen me before in his life.