Men have died for less, and I, for one, never asked for more. In the
Pacific Northwest are a thousand restaurants, healthy girls, and slutty
food. Trees that shade new money humbly greet you on the interstate;
intricate tattoos peek from sturdy cotton sleeves. “I consume five
thousand calories a day,” he said the day he met me. We spoke about
weddings and Sly Stallone; we ranked our favorite dogs by breed. In the
morning he kissed my forehead before leaving me for hashbrowns. But he didn’t.
Or he couldn’t. And the trees never changed a thing. “Endings are my
expertise,” I whisper to the ushers. They are bored with their
professions. They are picketing our aisle. In the beginning, God said,
“Let there be light.” It was the first—and best—joke ever told.