For many years she wanted them to leak out of poems, or no, maybe eke had been more what she’d been after, like her husband blowing into his e-flat horn, and the way she’d shyly push toward him the silver cup for the spittle he said was necessary for the notes. The two of them had their plans in place, so all was well. First they’d give themselves a good minute on the bridge, four hundred feet up over the lake—a minute to admire it; then he would climb first and she would follow over the rail. They both hated the water’s cold but it would only hurt for a sec. They’d thought it through: how they will, they must, enjoy the descent, the last of the mountains speeding by, the end of the air. He would hold on to her and she to him, just as they’d done in those years they tried to stay alive.