After dinner at Chez Désespoir,
when the wine, the brie,
cherry gazpacho, the sole,
the fruit and cheese with
honey glaze were cleared,
after he gave her a ring with
a rock as big as Jupiter,
she buried her face in her hands.
She said, “I need space.” He said:
“You want to be an astronaut?”
The next morning he popped up
at her work, deed in his hand to
a split level house in the suburbs.
Two thousand square feet
and that was the garage.
She watched him waving
in her rearview as she pulled away
back seat bulging with her bags.
Wiped from her cheek a single tear.
On the surface he was all she’d
ever want—sexy, successful, sweet.
But the universe was a tiny ball,
hidden in a thimble,
next to the space inside his skull.