“Great men all die in two’s, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Great men all–”

“No, wait, definitely heard what you said. I’m sorry?”

 Jon watched as Antoni meticulously developed a facetious look of confusion and concerted thought on his face. It was as familiar as it was convincing to those who didn’t know better, which, fortunately for Antoni’s reputation, was the vast majority of their friends. Jon was never sure if Antoni ever actually had to think about anything in particular, or if, like a fountain, he simply spewed up thoughts, fully formed down to the last molecule, at least until someone attempted to take a drink.

 Jon kept looking. His facial sparring partner eventually dropped the act. “Sondheim and Abloh,” Antoni finally responded.

“Coincidental. Also, too soon.” A pause hangs in the air. “Bourdain and Spade.”

“Another coincidence. Just because two people kill themselves–” “In the same fucking way, within days of each other.”

Antoni didn’t need to look up from his coffee to feel the look his friend was giving him, somewhere in between a glare, a sneer, and genuine concern.

 Jon continued: “Just because two people kill themselves does not mean it’s connected. They probably didn’t even know each other.”

“I’m not saying it’s planned,” Antoni said. “Not, not planned by them at least, not planned by the people who died. But maybe it’s planned in absentia or something.”

 “In absentia?”

 “You know what I fucking mean.”

 “No, I really don’t. And if you’re claiming some spiritual stuff, it’ll be even harder to convince me. There’s no way the universe is—”

 “Shakespeare and Cervantes.”

 Antoni’s voice was tinged with slight exasperation as Jon’s gaze floated to the window, tracking the light rail cars as they rolled past.

 “Well?” said Antoni. Jon kept looking.

Edith considered herself a profoundly meticulous woman, especially on Sundays, when she would be asked from dawn till dusk every action the daylight required of her again from week to week, from church, to Sunday school, to groceries for the apartment, to the deli for herself, to the orphanage she volunteered at, to the book club, to the flower shop, to the church again for confession, to her neighbors’ window for an afternoon mocktail, to home, finally, hopefully before her espresso or her Lexapro stopped working once the sun was halfway past the horizon and the moon shone too brightly in the sky.

 It was on one of these meticulously plotted days that she engaged in what she considered to be a quiet luxury: she took the train.

 It was typically slower than her darting bike rides through the city, through every nook and cranny, but her day’s plans had changed.

“You’re taking the train?” the woman in her phone inquired in a tone somewhere at the crux of patent concern and cautious elation.

 “Well…the flower shop’s closed. I think they’re hosting a wedding. Book club was canceled, and…I’ll be honest, I don’t feel that much need to confess today.”

 “Aside from the crime of being on the phone while on a train.”

 “Not a crime, simply faux-pas. And I, frankly, have earned the occasional faux-pas.”

 A giggle bubbled up from the other end of the line. “I’ll have to tell Margaret to start making drinks early, then.” It was distant now; Edith was on speaker, her roommate pacing around the apartment doing God-knows-what.

 A different voice perked up: “I don’t suppose you’ll be including drinking alcohol today too, since you’re to be switching everything up on us.”

 “No, sorry, I feel unhurried, not suicidal.” No response.

“Sorry. I’ll be at the apartment soon.”

 The train continued, past neighborhoods new and old, shantytowns and brownstones, before entering downtown.

 “Nothing, they didn’t die on the same day.” “ ‘course they did, April 23rd, 1616.” “Different calendars.”

“Different calendars?”

“Different. Calendars. Even so, doesn’t prove anything.”

 “I’m just saying, it’s a lot of stuff like this for it all to be a coincidence. Tutu and Vallée.”

 “Who the actual fuck is ‘Vallée?’ ”

 “Canadian director, Big Little Lies, Sharp Objects, shit like that.”

 “And yeah, it’s a fucking coincidence. A lot of fucking people die. Most people die, actually. Shockingly, for you, the majority of people on this planet have died. 94%, or something like that.”

 Antoni stared.

 Jon stirred his coffee.

"Bonobo? Really"

"What? I like it."

"I know, I'm not judging the music. I'm judging you."

 Emmy’s balcony was overflowing with lilies of all kinds. Tulips too. Marigolds. Her taste was less eclectic and more “too much.”

 “It sounds like a kind of monkey,” Edith said.

 Emmy: “The music or the name? Cuz the name is, you know.”

Margaret returned with champagne. The kind you know is supposed to be expensive, but

 “God, I really hate this,” said Emmy, taking a sip.

Margaret gave out the rest of the drinks. “She means the music. And it’s supposed to be wonderful, it’s in all the latest magazines.”

 Edith: “So you have time to read all that but not my stuff?”

 “Maybe write about something other than Marxists in Bulgaria, and I might.”

 A collective laugh.

 “They’re not Marxists, they’re agrarian revolutionaries. And they’re in Croatia. And they’re—”

 Emmy: “Her point exactly.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in human action, and you should too.” “I believe that people die. Do you believe that people die?”

“Yes, and—”

 “And you admit that people die randomly.”

“No.”

“No?”

 “No. No, I don’t. I don’t believe people die randomly. I believe people are pushed to death. Not like literally pushed, but pushed.”

 “Pushed to death(?)” “Yea. Pushed.”

Another train whistle.

Antoni gets up to leave. Jon too.

You’re wonderful. But you’re mad. And I mean that with love

“I do wish I could help them more, though.”

“You’re already writing about them.”

“Yeah, from a balcony in Chelsea sipping awful champagne.”

 To Margaret: “Babe? She is right. This is truly awful champagne. Just get Andre next time.”

 Margaret: “You pick it out next time, Emmy.”

 Edith continued. “Why can’t I just be there, then? Why can’t I?”

Emmy: “Why can’t you?”

More flowers. More champagne. More longing. More time. Margaret said, “Do you really have to go so soon?”

Edith: “The Bulgarian Marxists are Calling!” Her smile fades.

“It was good to see you.”

 “You too. Same time next week.”

Jon and Edith pass each other in the hallway of their apartment complex.

(The performance directions indicate that one or) both are dead by mo(u)rning.