My therapist says she’s detected a pattern–a predictable reoccurrence of breakdowns in communication. “We have to uncover the source,” she tells me, “or you will carry the pattern with you for the rest of your life.”

As she continues to talk, I wink at the floral wallpaper and consider the tragedy of a broken zipper. The way things work as they’re meant to until, one day, they don’t. People are easier to replace than repair. We pick out new partners and build new houses on broken zipper burial sites, and have nightmares of being chewed to death by metal teeth.

Last month, my therapist’s wallpaper was different. She thinks I don’t remember; but nothing’s more permanent than the memory of plaid.