My students are debating the nature of the woman in Klimt’s The Kiss. Why, you ask, are students learning about The Kiss in Landscape Design and Management at the local community college? Because, according to my extremely rough quant research, their future clients will probably be the type of people who fucking love Klimt. Or, at least, the aesthetic of Klimt. We can infer that their clients will want to exude an aura of knowing and appreciating Klimt.

There are about ten minutes left in class, so most of the students have tuned out and are waiting for the conversation to find a natural conclusion. I’m waiting, too, my mind having drifted to climbing palm trees with a saw, the breeze in my hair, and then tonight, maybe some cheap wine or a couple beers with Liz before bed—such a good life.

Max, my favorite worst student, signals that it’s time to pack up by playing, aloud from his phone, a Sonic Youth song, the one that inspired K to record her first demo. Now it feels heavier on pick scrapes than I remember. And as it turns out, this song is also on the playlist K sent me.

“Max,” I say. “Not now. I hate that band.”

“But you’re wearing their shirt,” Max says, shaking his head.

I point to the Klimt again. “Now listen, one last question before we wrap. You walk into the prospective client’s house and you see this hanging above a white marble table in the foyer. Klimt’s aesthetic. How might it inform the imaginary lines your client desires outside their home? Like, for example, azaleas or no azaleas?”

It’s as if they’ve all figured out exactly what they want in life. It’s fucking great. I bang on the window. They stop and look. I give them the thumbs-up. “Bravo! I’m very happy for y’all!” I yell.

Rob shakes his head and points at his ear. I don’t think they can hear me. They go right back at it.

Then, just like that, my indulgence in this, all this that is apparently life now, is interrupted by thoughts of my sister, and how she wasn’t scared of anything. Or was it that she didn’t care about anything? Why didn’t she call me when Heather died? Or even years later when I met Liz and we got married?

I try to sink these thoughts. My life has somehow turned out too good, and I worry that it might get even better, and then, after it gets as good as it can get, somehow it will all be taken from me. This is a reminder that some grief and some fears that I pretend are no longer alive are very much alive in me, alive as much as my sister might not be alive very soon. Wrap your head around that and walk straight through the fucking day.

But here are all of my students, kissing each other in the quad. I know they can’t hear me, but I bang on the glass and yell anyway, “Does this mean I’m doing a good job?”

By the time the window defogs, they have disappeared.

Meredith is staring out her office window, looking across the expanse of the quad, the students laughing and milling about, celebrating the end of the semester.

Meredith turns to me. She’s crying. She has an expression that is the absolute dead-on representation of dread.

“Is everything okay?” I say.

“The grass, Sack, it’s so long all of the sudden. Didn’t you just cut it?”

“Yes, just a few days ago. It looks like it’s growing faster than usual. I wanted to ask actually if we could switch to a different landscape design, a wild design? Also, I wanted to ask for this Friday and next Monday, and maybe Tuesday, off. For a family matter.”

“Sure. Whatever.” She turns back to the window.

“Okay, thanks,” I say. That was too easy. “Wait, to which one, the new landscape or the days off?”

“They seem synergistic to me, Sack.”

“Right.” I’m not sure I know what that means.