Welcome home.

We feel so domestic it’s practically undomestic. Maybe if we embrace being a couple, living on the Upper West Side, eating sandwich halves at the kitchen table, falling asleep before midnight, it will transform us. I’m not going to keep the sabbath. I’m not going to keep up with Joneses. That’s okay. We live quietly, for now. We drink less and eat more. We smile over the hum of the dishwasher, our faces glowing with an l.e.d. flush. Domesticity is overrated. Long walks to the park are picture-perfect. The sidewalks are chalked with little pawprints and baby carriage wheels. We practice the pull-out method. We steam our vegetables and take the batteries out of the smoke alarm when the fish burns in the oven. Welcome home. Life in a vacuum cleaner hose. Pass the sugar, please. Life in a stasis.


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