I’m not saying I started the coronavirus pandemic, but the other day on the yoga mat I did set an intention to come to some kind of peace with my ex. Subsequent events have me believing the two might be related.

After six and a half years together, last April I discovered the ass had fallen in love with a geographically undesirable manic pixie dream girl 15 years his junior whom he “could not renounce.” By June, I was in a thousand pieces, and our house—a really nice 1920s town house in the 20th Arrondissement of Paris—was on the market. Where it sat. And sat. And sat. The price is right; the real-estate agent doesn’t understand, but sometimes it’s like that. Summer wore into fall. Strikes and gilets jaunes dealt their shitty hand. Our interactions got so hostile, it was wiser to stop speaking to each other entirely.