Superbowl Sunday and I finally feel pretty. My bangs have transitioned. I take my dog on a walk to look for flowers for the table. There is one bush of candy-striped rose-shaped blossoms, but it sits on the corner of the yard of a self-proclaimed Bachelor’s Palace. Out front is someone’s son shooting a basketball. A few men sit or lean on the porch, looking skinny and beautiful, their bangs in their eyes.

My dog shoots me a look. I’ve been standing here too long. I’ve been standing here, growing skin, growing hair, growing layers of myself like a redwood that’s been in the forest for decades, standing alone.

Back at the house, half-time is starting. A woman with an anime-inspired ponytail dances with projections of light. Men in dolphin suits flank her. Her skin is made of glitter. My husband sits in front of our large window, his face in his own shadow. I think he is smiling.

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