Is the unnamed narrator also, inevitably, 

An unreliable one? Reader, you only know 

the world that she lays out like cards 

on the table before you. Who knows what 

she hides? Certain ruptures, 

Tuesday afternoon traffic jams,

the inevitable boredom of 3 or 4 a.m.

The story begins at sunrise, she says, 

imploring you to “hope like anything 

it would turn out alright.”