“I didn’t want my wife running for congress. Or running a business. Or teaching in a classroom. Or anywhere but at home.” says Louis.

“Funny!” says a perfume hater in the afterlife…out of time. In the future.

Because if there’s Purgatory…or something in Christianity like it.

Oh man.

Joe gave Lacey the impression he didn’t love her. And she took it to heart.

“And that’s why moral rules are created.” says a Jew. “For people’s protection.”

“See the thing is…you weren’t ever supposed to make any mistakes. Ever.” says Harold to Lacey. He’s being sarcastic. “You were supposed to never be confused. Or hurt. …Or confused…”. He shrugs. “And every adult has held you accountable for that since you were born.”

“Was I supposed to be the messiah?” asks Lacey sarcastically.

“Mmmm. Not quite that perfect. That’s too perfect. You need to mess-up a little. But not too much. Just like…a hint of evil.” says Harold.

“I tried that. I think it got too evil.” she says.

“You cannot be serious?!” asks a hater.

“You were trying to be evil to be good?” asks another hater.

“Possibly. To survive. And take care of myself.” she said. And says.

“Could you be obsessively truly moral?” asks a dead Jew of Lacey.

“Yes, possibly. I still can’t save myself. But possibly yes.” says Lacey.

“You have no real temptations?” asks a Jew.

Lacey sighs. “Possibly not.”

She laughs.

Lacey feels abnormal. She worries.

“Did you when you were a kid?” asks a perfume hater.

“Yes!” says Lacey.

“But you still can’t save yourself.” says a Catholic priest.

“No. The-It doesn’t work. It seems.” she says. “And I have to think that Christians would agree on that.”

“Would you have slept with Lem if you didn’t think it was necessary for some higher purpose?” asks a Christian hater. “Should that be Lem.”

“Possibly not.” says Lacey.

“And yet you still had love for him?” asks a hater.

“Yes. Of course.” says Lacey.

“Then there are no moral laws. And you’re still ugly and stupid in some other way I can use to feel superior.” says a hater. “Someday you’ll get it.”

“How were you superior?” asks Lacey.

“I’m cooler and smarter.” he says.

“How?” she asks.

“I have better hair and my face is cooler.” he says.

“Is it really though?” she wonders sincerely.

“No.” he says.

“So then what?” asks Lacey.

“It doesn’t work does it?” he observes. He’s disappointed too.

“We just can’t save ourselves.” she says.

He looks exasperated.

“We can’t.” she says.

“Are you gloating that you figured that out?” asks a perfume hater.

“I think I just want what she has?” he wonders.

“Possibly gloating. Possibly not.” says Lacey.

“And you can’t dig deep enough to figure it out in yourself psychologically?” asks Lem.

“Possibly.” says Lacey. “Some things are very likely if not certain. Other things I am less sure about.”

“Why in the world do you want what I have?!” Lacey scoffs. “I have good taste. But it’s just personal. Do you want my poop too?” She looks at the person. “And my exact pain? And sicknesses? And love? And all of it? It’s totally idiotic and bizarre and sick.” she says.

They have to think. And thankfully no. They aren’t that mentally-ill.

“No. Just some things.” admits someone.

“Like what?” Lacey asks.

“No!!!” says a Jewish woman. “No!!!”

“Too much?” asks Lacey.

“Yes.” says a dead Jewish woman to Lacey.

And at that Sadko by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov starts. It’s time to be quiet. And listen to the music. The music. The music. …The music.

The music. Of God.