NOVEMBER 3RD, 2004
I lie next to my secret husband one minute and the next he is the shower running, the lights light then dim under the bathroom door. I roll over to the time bomb, the telephone, my mother asking if I'm okay, and how are you dealing with your disappointment? She asks if I've heard from my brother, the desert's phantom son. I tell her he never did throw his golf clubs after a bad shot or bite the Nintendo controller out of frustration. She tells me I'm tired. I tell her I'm sick of seeing the marine layer burn off in the morning only to return in the afternoon. I tell her this ground is only paper-mâché and glue and homophobia. She tells me she feels safe now and I love her so I hang up.