We go to the Museum of Broken Relationships when there’s nothing else to do. The security guard seated just inside the door dozes with his mouth open. Wounding comments play continuously in the background. Other couples seem to hurry from room to room, but we linger over the exhibit of old love letters, beautiful handwriting that is nearly illegible behind the fractured glass. Out front where a brother and sister cry for their missing parent, it’s begun to get dark. Birds pause in their migration to listen, amazed that electricity passes through such slender and dented wires.