Some people scramble up the stairs and spring out into the Sunday afternoon while you let your voice join the eight-part harmony and your feet make circuits around the concrete-floored basement. You hold the sheet music high and decide there isn’t time to dwell on each of your regrets, although you allow yourself the brief hope that Sean will die alone. The ground trembles and the lights stutter; then you are walking in the dark while the choir soars. You let your paper float to the ground as a stranger clasps your arm, a last attempt to anchor themselves to someone else, and so you stand there singing to each other about love gone wrong. Suddenly you are thinking about the shy man, the one who smiled at you when he thought no one else was looking, from that summer by the lake and how for over twenty years you have had a lingering false memory that he wrote to you after you had flown home, because how could he have had your address and what did the letter even say. You feel the soft syllables of his name turning around and around in your head and wonder if he was the one that could have made you happy. The words of Good Luck Babe are still filling the room, almost loud enough to cover the noise of someone crying for a person that perhaps never even loved them back. You wonder how far the running people got and you allow yourself to hope that Sean’s coworker is alone too. The song ends and restarts, all of you treading on the carpet of music, and as you sing you can almost feel the burning brilliant sun of that long-ago summer on your skin and the barely-there weight of that pale blue airmail envelope in your hand.