My first husband bought this house. He worked his way through the ranks. We moved to some terrible towns, but now I know if I have nothing else, I have these Great rooms.
If you thought there was no skull-cavern vast enough to hold the many woes I pour forth, you have not met my second husband.
When I am making quick work of the Haagen Daas, my third husband will gently take the carton from my hands.
Why is my fourth husband not standing on a ladder to switch the fixtures’ incandescent beams? Because he is tall.
When confronted with a sticky aesthetic wicket, my fifth husband is the go-to guy to guide me through such agonies as Should the you be he?
My sixth husband has been out of town for twelve of the last fourteen days. I powder my nose to Skype.
Why, when I talk about other people, my seventh husband asks, do I always seem to talk about myself?
When I am collecting the dirty plates left on the table by my eighth husband, I feel a rush of gratitude for his slumped shadow on the couch.
Sometimes, one needs to be stonily reminded of how much worse it could be. That’s when I welcome the comforting gloom of my ninth husband.
My tenth husband has twelve other wives.
Between my eleventh husband and me, there are no words.
Between my twelfth husband and me, there are the same nine words, over and over.
If only I had access to the beautiful, heightened language I need to explain my unknowable thirteenth husband. Perhaps number five can help me.
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