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A Misplaced MemoryIrina Oren (Wilcox…Oren-Wilcox?) glows, inside and out. Having just arrived for her own wedding reception (my wedding, she kept saying to herself, with increasing hysteria), she kisses Michael enthusiastically on both cheeks and the lips and, apologizing profusely to everyone, rushes to the ladies' room to get her first elated look at herself as a married woman.The restroom is way too big, way too lavender, and way too plush for a restroom. The mirror is floor-length and takes up the entire wall beside the prissy row of sinks. Her eyes flit around her own reflection. Flushed cheeks – check. Lace and little flowers – check. Golden band on fourth finger of the left hand – check. She practices flashing her wedding smile. White teeth – check. Perfect posture – check. Empty eyes – check. Fuck. There it is again. That politician's wife smile. That ugly disappointment and plastic happiness.She doesn't understand it. Her joy had felt so alive in tha
InsomniaYou asked me how I feltas I sat below you in my thoughtsand I confessed to you my dreadthat I had broken something beautiful.I sat on the curb for hoursin the embryonic morningand the city told me its secrets:A woman walking backwardsthrough the alleyways, determinedtoward a destination she could not see;a man sitting in the road, his bare chestcaved and heaving in the humidity.Later, I returned to the placewhere the broken pieces layAnd I pulverized them beyond recognition,having realized that they meant nothing to me.