It seems I am beginning to like things that look good on paper. Things that burn easily. But I am not an arsonist, so all should turn out well. I speak and think of Jesse’s brother. The man with ‘missionary’ written all over him, with a Sharpie pen. He is destined for moderate success. I can feel it in my bones. They rattle with prophesy. If he should notice me, we would certainly get married. Soon after, I would create perfect children for him, that I would not terribly want. Terribly. But shared history breeds loyalty, and I couldn’t very well leave my husband and children simply because it’s not really what I want. Society dictates what I want, or it will become that way. It happens to the best of us. What’s-His-Name will be a lawyer of the underpaid and incompetent variety, and I will be his frustrated housewife.