In the centre of the room were two giant cardboard boxes, the kind refrigerators come packed in. On the box to the left, in the Perfectionist’s handwriting, was the word FRIEND. On the box to the right was the word LOVER. The two boxes were the only objects in the room. Tom looked at the Perfectionist. The Perfectionist looked at him. Tom looked back to the boxes and then back at the Perfectionist. He scratched his head.
“Well?” the Perfectionist asked. “which one?” She moved her arms, suggesting he should get in one.
Tom walked into the room and stood between the two boxes. He looked at the one marked LOVER and he looked at the one marked FRIEND. He made his decision quickly. With sharp steps he moved in front of the box marked FRIEND. Picking it up, he lived it over his head and put it inside the box named LOVER. Then he turned around, picked up the Perfectionist, and lifted her inside the boxes.
He climbed in with her.

Well, that didn’t word,” Ambrose said, pulling the Stewart out of Tom’s heart.
“What?”
“Still broken. Good that you cleaned her out. You won’t be getting those pains any more, but she’s still broken.”
“Can’t you fix it?”
“Nope. The whole thing’s broken, and when she breaks like that, there’s nothing anyone can go,” Ambrose said, wiping the Stewart clean with the cloth from his back pocket. “Maybe it’ll mend itself. Sometimes they do.

Why did you do that?” he wails. “Why would you do that to me? Why did you return my heart?”
The Perfectionist stares at the Broken-Hearted Man. Her teeth grind together.
“I loved you so much,” the Perfectionist says. Her eyes have gone glossy. “Without it, what would you have loved me with?