Emptiness is a precarious thing. To become a drop of rain evaporating into sunset, or something less flashy like costume jewelry or knowing the perfect time to say Yes, honey, you look fabulous. The antecedent is in how we turn off all the lights and play a game of pretend. Husband raising himself like a lamb at slaughter; wife unraveling like a spool of dropped thread. What do we say when confronted by these terrors? That we live like this, is what. Wild like stoking a brushfire from the comfort of your own couch. Every ember that wants so badly to be a cloud, but is instead a paper bag caught by the wind. I mean anything that can just up and fly away because we look too closely; because we can hear them, softly, whispering that love is ultimately transactional. This is how we converse; how we make our exchange: Him on the edge of the couch watching the game; me dreaming as if I could fold everything empty inside-out. Listen—how what they say about love is only partially true.