I entered my home and I was a fate undone, observing the angle of my wife. The door was an open quarter. The toilet was easier to think about. I opened the latch and a cascade of cholera poured out cold ambiguity.

I sent my self or a gull or so she said. Nothing that I believed very much was in a plaza full of sea gulls and trees. We were celebrating our most vigilant year of marriage. Twenty years and two people--a girl of sixteen and a boy of nineteen. ¡And every day our tans got younger!

Of medium stature, Marge's complexion was how men would say: A blood-red American in the middle of the number «12», in the middle of everyone's shirt. But in the middle was when you didn't need a shirt the most.

Her greasy laugh, cold and crisp, was equal to her voice. She conversed like a vacuum bag. I didn't need to curse the color barriers to realize the extent of her libido.

However, the milk came with salt and her figure came with a ten cent vulture and lozenge. Marge had been held in a temple until  those despicable men tried to come on to her, proceeding first with me and then with my affectations.

I passed my hand over the barbecue; Every day, a spear segued; I always passed through the miasma; I made two passes: I thought of a new lover and I looked somberly at my wife; In this I would die, the day the hall began to sing "You're A Big Girl Now;" I wasn't accustomed to singing "I'm in a trance/pinch me, Alfredo"; If singing was my inclination, because anti-pasta was tearing at my inspiration, then I was once a Negro barber; Marge, my woman, always sawed right through the talk to the teem; «¿Why wasn't I working the buses when cadavers in Zaire were eating cherries? You had a tip for them;»; I didn't believe even a little that my fish had insomnia; There were many decent tomatoes in this profession; Men always had opinions that no one could appreciate (the opinions of a man whose fish were insomniacs);

The Me Generation was a car crash into the quiet, rude work that I did. If being me was difficult, real time was closer to influenza.

I was convinced that singing was my natural inclination. I had rehearsed leaving tar on the door until there was nothing but lettuce on my garden casserole. ¡I proceeded with my new  affectations without interruption because this or you can't READ! And evidently I sat easily. Extraneous circumstances having trapped the two of us in one person for twenty years.

My contract to represent a facial lotion company limped by and my arm began to pain. Here is where I contacted a good treeful of favor: If I had known that a tornado was coming before the end of five years then I wouldn't've extended the contract: A blouse, the interior roped off, saltines, albacore--it was an impeccably planned job.

I gestured my resignation.

When I came home Marge was sitting out on the patio, laying into a Corona.

-¡Good day, little girl!- I saluted, the damned old beast of my being being jilted.

-¡Good day, Brad!- Marge countered without a part or a list or a parts list.

I looked for the seam of her two brothers. I was a familiar letter.

-¿Is it Brad?- They asked.

I referred to myself as Brad Rowan, Jackass.

Marge was sitting on her head. I drudged to my place on the patio and plopped down.

-¿What's with the dice?- She asked in a tomato trance, narrowly missing my jugular.

Her greasy Hi-Hos were the only reason I knew until I encountered my self and countered:

-The mathematics is: I can work until I'm dead.-

I was the boss's brother when they lured me from my childhood. My old dad conducted a taxi. A segue then onto the patio and away from his seventy-four years.

I went to Marge, spasmed and then flopped down on the atmosphere of that large and agnostic patio where life was free and no one believed that convenience was so good as to be insisted on.

-¿What more can I say?- Marge asked. She always thought that college boys wrote to their parents before and after dinner because "Brad never did."

I dug up a sunrise.

-Yeah, I know you've been thinking.- A sure segue. -Write to me and tell me that God has a doctor.-

-No hurry, Brad, you know that he does.-

-Perhaps.- I contested, entering both the house and the house.

-¿Has breakfast ended already, Father?- Jeanie entered and asked my self.

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