The anarchist asked me if I believed in God. We were in bed, and it was snowing. I needed a mirror to make sure I existed. He touched my rib cage under my shirt and kept talking about economic forces. You can’t let him tear you to shreds, Jess said on the phone. Rumi thought the handsome beloved might have become a cypress tree. Were you crying again, the anarchist said. I passed him the vape pen. I thought the handsome beloved was more likely a mistranslation, a blossoming sage plant. We were in bed, talking urgently about Chernobyl. He wanted to tell me about probability. Do you want to switch roles, I said. The anarchist showed me the trees his mother looked at as she was dying. He needed someone to fix the roof. But as soon as I said it I realized that I did not want to switch roles, that what I needed was to continue to surrender. It was snowing. The handsome beloved was a repetition compulsion. The bed was covered in deep snow. More blew in, carrying chokecherry petals and radiation dust. Sometimes I hated the handsome beloved, but he was always the beloved. When I left the next afternoon, the anarchist gave me a menorah and a pair of his dead mother’s hiking sandals.