I drive a car full of cute people out of Montreal to Sainte-Cécile-de-Milton where Genevieve and I know of a cider farm. Three out of five of us are going through recent breakups; there is a heavy heart in the air. I put sad songs on the queue. Someone says it makes them “sad as fuck”. After sitting at a very large table and discussing how to break up over text, we go into the orchard. It is so cold that the apples taste like ice cream. We pick them right off the ground, brushing the wet dirt away. I lie on my back in the grass and wonder about the Garden of Eden.