You couldn’t guess your wife’s name before you met her and now you know it, since you married, you wish you could forget, know that moments clasping the air for words are full of hope whereas this, well, isn’t.
You couldn’t agree on kids, didn’t discuss god, aren’t exactly sure what TV the other watches (you think Dawson’s Creek is a place people go like the Grand Canyon, Palm Springs), don’t know if you ever read the same book – at school or for the hell of it. You don’t know if she ever does things for the hell of it; the regime at your address is an alarm set, a clock flashing.
She wakes before you, and the first few moments, eyes open, she watches your crows’ feet twitch. In the shower, she cancer-checks her breasts as seductively as possible. She thinks about Gemma, Tim. Follows alternate paths she could’ve taken: kissing Paula, fucking Paul.
She’s one thing you can’t fix. She doesn’t want fixing and the fact you’re inclined to try is your fault, a fault of yours, an eternal error. You couldn’t cup her in your palms how you could cake and you can’t pull that ring off without pinning her down, which always ends in police. Your mistakes your mistakes your mistakes are dialogue.