Rena liked clarity, balance, transparency, things with definite edges without ambiguity. When she placed a vase on a windowsill, it was centered. When she closed the door of a bedroom to play her flute, she knew how long she would be there, what pieces she would practice. She compressed her lips, frustrated, angry, and, consequently, frightened by the messiness of other people’s lives. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’m just going to go. I’ll call you, I guess. Please say goodbye to Franz and Ellen for me.”
Their last picnic.