It Is Not Entirely My Fault, I Forbid You This Recurring Dream, Minneapolis & The Flattening of the Vault of Heaven

It Is Not Entirely My Fault

We are at the wedding of your brother and the Brooklyn princess and the apparent failure of the polka to restore balance to the universe wipes teenage lovers off my list of disappointments. They say this is meant to be the best day of a woman's life, but I have had more fun by myself in the backseats of taxis. - I know, I say to you, - it is not about me.

We arrive early and stand around admiring the lavender sky where a satellite vacuums the same spot over and over again. This illustrates that space will be a repeat from now on but very clean. The mother of the bride looks carved out of frosting and the groomsmen sway in place like overweight peonies. Pop. We are stunned by a visiting flashbulb.

- Oh, hello, says the person behind the camera - I have noticed you, that is, I may have met you before. When we were in the car and you put your mouth everywhere. - Look at that, I say, they are kissing, that bride and groom. And they do. And we go to dinner and with the salmon there is more kissing and clinking and giggling. - When will there be a crackdown on this sort of thing, I ask you, - this record-breaking kissing and giggling. You ask what the hell is the matter with me. We begin to dance, a lurching, abbreviated waltz because the dance floor is very compact and we do not want to bump into people who do not know us.

One hand of your hands holds my hand, through which it might absorb all the secret details of my life, or might not. I do not read leaves; I do not have visions. Weddings are about declarations, about I-do's and I-love-you's and what's wrong with that? I should talk. I know. There is nothing less original than a sentence.

I Forbid You This Recurring Dream

I can't sleep. I haven't slept well for months now and my eyes are pink and splintery all day long. I stare at my husband while he sleeps and I don't like the look of his nervous system, the way he sleeps like he's waiting to be shot out of a cannon. The dog knows I'm awake and scratches at the door, insisting that I accompany him to the couch and monitor the blurry street for squirrels or midnight delivery vans.

Sometimes at night we can see stars in our neighborhood even though it is the kind of light-polluted quasi-urban-yet-genteel neighborhood where you should never be able to see stars, much less constellations like Orion which is the only one I can really ever find. When we can see the stars, I am happy because of their hardcore sparkle. I think that they are tough little bastards, poking through the greasy night sky.

The dog and I watch the Jannsen house across the street. We try to be nice to the Jannsens, but they are the kind of people who inspire acute irritation even in truly nice people, which we are not. They are passive and bossy at the same time, the kind of people who use the phrase "if I were you" more often than "hello." They will wait until you have had a new roof put on and then they will come over and tell you they heard that your particular contractor uses cut-rate shingles. They will shake their heads at the brown patches of grass on your lawn and tell you that you should have used a more toxic brand of fertilizer. The only thing about which they have no opinion is their son, Anthony, who is the most sullen and disaffected teenager I have ever met. He starts fires whenever he's in the mood - barbecues, grass...