I dreamt I gave birth to triplets. My god, we don't even have that many nipples.Waking, I was almost inspired.

"Today I will write a real love poem."

"Come on," Mary said. "All you write are love poems."

I lied when I first met Jared. I told him I was a writer. I'm not. I want to be. I use words like "engulf" and "lackluster" in common conversation, and revel in creating beautiful little snippets of nothing, which strive to capture and illuminate the essence of blah blah blah blah blah.

Language is terribly seductive, easy to drown in.

I thought I could disappear.

I feigned sleep the ride down South. Mary stole a vanilla lip gloss for me at one of the gas stations in Newport. Not even my favorite flavor. We have little in common, and, in fact, I don't even think we like each other that much. Still, for the last five years our lives have been essentially intertwined. And as much as both of us tried to deny it, at that point in our lives we needed each other. Or at least we needed to leave, and neither of us would have been brave enough to do on our own.

I finally awoke the day I met Jared, after Mary told me to stop falling in love with things that are beautiful. She said it was too easy, and I asked if everything always had to be made more complicated. About 2 months into Orlando, and we were becoming somewhat settled. She had bought a toaster the day before last, and was thrilled at the prospect. At 9 a.m. I groggily searched for the espresso, while Mary carefully removed two slices of bread and tenderly inserted them into the slots, waiting with wonder as the chemical change occurred. Mary doesn't generally even eat breakfast, but that day, she sat at the table with me, happily slathering jam on her whole grain toast.

"This marks an incredible occasion," she remarked excitedly. "Don't you feel the symbolic weight?" She takes a large bite of toast and a swig of orange juice. "We have a fucking toaster! We aren't lost and wandering any longer. Things have finally settled. We can make our own food even."

"You didn't say this when we got the microwave," I said.

"We got the microwave because we could afford it and didn't have time to cook our own meals. The toaster is a luxury rather. Almost as if we have a home."

I look around the apartment. Two mattresses on opposite sides of the room, separated by draped Indian curtains, eight large brown boxes, a vase of flowers, a microwave and a toaster.

"Oh, right."

If I had wings ...

And I wasn't really sleeping that whole car trip. Simply waiting. Listening. Rebirth is a terribly slow and painful process. Mary asked if I was happy ever, and I said, "Sometimes." Jared asks me now as I write this the same question, and I give the same reply. We are always on the brink of some profound, imaginary change, as if our lives are like movie screens, glossy and linear.

I still want a garden. Maybe even children.