She sits in her chair with her legs draped over one arm and her head upon the opposite arm. An orange blanket draped over a part of her legs, leaving her feet free to lazily bounce to the beat of the music he shared with her. She wonders how she gets herself in these situations. She wonders why she dreamily listens to the Decemberists’ melancholy when her own is too twisted for any tune. She ponders that if maybe she did something differently, the outcome would somehow be altered. But, she knows, in her heart and in her mind, that it would always be this way.