Husband Y is 20% more efficient than Husband Z, but slightly less than Husband X under certain circumstances including getting dropped in the ocean, immersed in dust or framed in auto-shifting camera focus while you're looking at Husband W standing slightly off screen. Woolly blue curls bloom outside, stalks topped with purple flowers and tiny white hairs. Like a rare breed of Skittle blossoming under the sun. I am hesitant to pluck one, hesitant to taste as I always have been. There are plenty more, Husband Y says. It's a flower, not a Skittle, just leave it and get your own if you want them so badly, Husband Z counters. Let the hummingbirds have them, Husband X advises. Do lavender Skittles exist? Husband W asks. I try to remember, but my memory forces pieces of childhood together like an angry toddler with a jigsaw. Was there blue? Husbands X and Y eventually pool together their incomes for a down payment and leave to a suburb where they raise two dogs. Husband Z loses direction, thinks someone will share love as is, raw, evolutionless, like a stone in a tower with no moisture to grow mold, no quake to rock it to the ground. Husband W searches for the lavender hue of Skittles. I inspect the ceramic shield fronts for which I can fade out city streets and stares—you're not supposed to walk around alone at night—waiting for a return.

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