You go everywhere. First you go to the next room and pick up an ashtray. Then I follow you into the kitchen. You smile at me, you put a kettle on the stove, you pull glasses from the cupboard.
"Wait here," you say.
I wait.

I light a cigarette, inhale once and rest it in the ashtray. I am impatient for tea and I walk to your fridge. You have soda and I snap open a can and take a long pull. The bubbles make it difficult to swallow it all at once. I choke a little. I can hear you rummaging through a box in your bedroom. You re-enter the kitchen holding a large, glazed, hollow, ceramic strawberry. The kettle whistles and you set the strawberry on the table. I remember that I am smoking and sit down, pick up the cigarette, pull a drag from it.
"I don't get it. What's that for?" I ask.
"You'll understand in a minute. Do you want chamomile or mint?"
"Mint," I say.

You make us tea. You sit down across from me at the table. There is a moment of silence and then I point to the object in question. Its seeds have been poorly painted on. I wish I could wash them off but the glaze would prevent that.
"Ah, yes," you say as if you had forgotten.
"Yes?"
"Yes. So. This has a gift for you inside of it. I picked it out when I first moved. I didn't have anything safe to store it in, so I put it in here. I don't want you to open it until you get back. After you do, maybe you could send it back to me with something for me. I'll send it back to you. Voila. A container for concealing things too personal, better than a box. Of course, you'll still have to put it in a box."

I understand. I imagine growing attached to the strawberry. I imagine it sitting next to my bed. I wonder what I will fill it with. It will become familiar to me. I will anticipate its arrival. I will think of you as I wait for the strawberry to arrive. I will worry if it has made its way to you when I send it back. I didn't want the strawberry.
"I don't want the strawberry. It's too much pressure," I try to say it as sternly as I can which makes you laugh.
"Well, it is terribly fragile. But it's a good piece. Art, if you ask me."

I didn't ask you. I think it's ugly. I don't want this object flying from England to New York every week or two. I don't want our thoughts contained in it. It's been a year since you had left, will it be another year of wishing for a past we refuse to reconstruct?
"Nah, I guess I didn't mean it. I'll take it with me. It's not valuable, is it? Just in case it gets lost in the mail."

It is not valuable. I know this. He reiterates this. I finish my tea. I yawn.
"I must be going," I say, "early flight to catch. You know how those go."
"Yeah," he says, fusing false empathy with a tinge of real, live, actual sadness.

He carries the strawberry to the door. It has a lid, like a cookie jar, which he has taped shut. I only now notice the tape. There is an awkward one-armed hug. Our stomachs press against the strawberry. He hands it to me.
"I wonder if they'll let me include this in my carry-on," I joke.
"It's small enough to fit in your purse. Just make sure you don't open it until you get home. I want you to be surprised."
"Am I going to make it through security with this thing?"
"Yes. Hush," he says hush like he used to in the dark, but we are standing near his boots in the hallway and the light is on. It reflects in the mirror on the wall and strains my eyes a little.

Outside I hail a cab. I snuggle into the backseat and ask to be taken to my hotel. I chose to stay in a hotel so that I could avoiding sleeping in his bed.
"Could you turn on the light back here?" I ask the driver.

A small, dim light flicks on and I press my nails beneath the tape, peeling off the largest part. I open the lid. It falls backwards, hinged on a piece of tape on the other side. I have to angle the opening to see what is inside. I dip my hand in and scoop out tiny, dried starfish. The strawberry is a quarter of the way full with them. I don't understand. I want to call and ask you to explain. And then I think I get it. I think it is because they regenerate the body parts they have lost. They lose and re-grow. They hurt and then mend. They have five limbs and then four and then five again. They always regain. I think. I think this is what you mean. I cannot call you to ask you but I have determined what I will do.

When I return home I carry my luggage into the post office. I package the strawberry, still full, partially taped, and I address it back to you.