After an especially petty argument with my wife, I became obsessed with the power of cliché. We had been arguing a lot lately, about a long list of hypotheticals in regard to the protuberance that was just starting to tent the shirt beneath her breasts: what would be the protuberance’s name, would it attend private school or public, would it be circumcised or un-, would we make it take piano lessons like my parents made me, etc.
But the particular argument in which inspiration hit was over what to watch on television. I was in favor of Tiny House Hunters, thinking mistakenly the title referred to the size of the hunters not the houses, and she was for So You Want to Be a Princess. Neither of us felt strongly, but by that point argument had become our default mode of interaction.
I had been taking Xanax for anxiety, half a pill three times daily, and in the evenings I’d chase it with a splash of red wine drunk from a coffee mug. It left me with a pleasant hazy feeling, and through this haze I had started to think perhaps there was more to the . . .
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