RICH WAS SO happy to be home he felt like hugging his porch, like squeezing the bag of rotten leaves like a pony, tossing the leaves in the air; like grabbing his neighbor—as the man silently loaded bottles into his recycling bin, with his back to Rich—and kissing the man. Rich stood, his face abraded from shaved crotch whiskers; he wanted to say hello, make small talk, tell the man what had happened tonight, but he would’ve fallen apart. That long-headed freaky spit factory would be stalking Rich when he got back from his honeymoon, he was now sure of it.

The UPS man had left a box wedged between the storm door and the front door. He kicked it in with the mail. He could hear the packing pellets shaking inside it. Untouched mail from the last five days lay on the floor. A few last response cards. He knew the answer by this late date. This European wedding idea had stunned a lot of people who didn’t feel like spending two thousand dollars on a trip to fucking France. He understood that finally and wasn’t mad. He read each card, carefully appreciating whatever little apology they made, even one with only the “Will not attend” box checked off.

Standing in the little living room, Rich was suddenly grateful for everything in his life. He’d been living the last months as a prologue to rather than a passing through of life’s events, and as he stared at the suitcases, he realized that now he had begun to “care” again. The last months had felt like a gap, an era of holding breath. He’d been vehemently ignoring with his whole heart whatever happened to him each day, but now it did, finally, make sense, and he was glad for however it was that the obfuscation of his brain had ended. In an attempt to distract himself he’d spent a million hours on the phone with Nora every night, ostensibly for work, and when she didn’t answer he poured over blueprints, and when he could see every angle in three dimensions with his eyes closed he tried reading A Tale of Two Cities. He never got past that first loony sentence and ditched the book, but now it, too, finally, made sense. This was the best of times, and the worst of times.

Like tonight, for instance. He ate Nora’s pussy, and now, for the first time since April (it was August), he was glad to be home. See?