Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

The Enormous Mystery of Couples

42 The Enormous Mystery of Couples I sit here. You sit there. You love that rumpled afghan. I keep wearing this sweater. The snow is melting in mid-December. You opened the Advent calendar. I forgot to empty the litter box. Words gave way years ago. I write down everything. You gave up getting to bed on time. Two will never become one. Two become legion. At the terminal Christmas party, we won’t find each other. You, standing by a painting of a schooner surging over a storm’s wave, hold your drink just so, nodding, leaning back in a laugh. I also nod, listening to the long days in another’s anonymous world. At the table by an orchestration of hors d’oeuvres, the newly alone fifth-grade teacher reaches 43 for a cracker, drops a dollop of pâté onto its center. Two minus one equals everything else. We will sleep within the muted infinity of each other. ...