I’ve finally matriculated, and I expect to feel nothing? she asked while I stared at the daffodils at her feet, daffodils you’d think someone might have cleaned up by now, at least if there was any dignity in this place. Or any justice in the world. When your father greeted me just a moment ago he referred to me as “Toyota Camry” and explained that I have a fine engine in me and began wistfully repeating “if only… if only… some of the upholstery out of the back, strip the air-conditioning…” while gently caressing my single headlight. She explained nudging one of the daffodils with her foot that she’d worked hard for years and had she thought certain ideas borrowed from Jewish, Christian and Marxist thought (not being she said too well-read on Islam) that matriculation meant the end of history and that her time of suffering was over. And so this feeling of nothing coming when she had reached the end disturbed her. For my part I slipped the chain back on the axle and ever-so-slightly agitated my back wheel in order to dislodge a daffodil caught underneath the fender. Standing up from her seat she turned to the glare of the door as it opened and shielding her eyes asked Hello? Have you come about the flowers?