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I said, the news that you are married is the tsunami after the earthquake. A fire, standing inside a kick drum at a rock concert. Eating chalk. He said, that’s very poetic. And topical. And tasteless. The operator said, to continue your conversation, please insert one euro. She said it in Catalan. Then in Spanish. Then in English. I yelled. He lectured. But but but, I said. What you did to me, I said. The lack of passion, we said, the eyes glossy like fishmarket cod. Your lecherousness. Your manipulation. Your superiority. At least wait until you come home. I can’t trust you anymore. You’re making a scene, lower your voice. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t you remember the beach house? Don’t you remember how quiet it is there? Books about birdwatching. Mismatched plates. Video tapes and a sand-filled VCR. Let’s go back there. The wife never mattered there, you didn’t know she existed. She matters now. She doesn’t have to matter. She matters.