Cohen understood that this was the logic of their communication, that is, misunderstanding, a quiet misfiring, the prying open of holes in language. “I’m going out for my glass of wine,” she said, sliding open the door as her husband picked up the remote that felt to her sometimes like a kind of ideal or superior version of the penis, a penis which in effect did control reality, whereas the human penis only yearned for this dictatorial control over the course of things.Ī month ago, she was a bit tipsy and started to explain about the remote’s penis-like quality to her husband, but he misunderstood Mrs. Cohen to the little pea-gravel backyard with a glass of sauvignon blanc and a mind full of thoughts and images which felt unbearable, like a fire only the wine could put out. When they arrived home, to their house which was a slightly differentiated replica of its neighbors, they went to their separate compartments, her husband to his television lair, and Mrs. She liked the beach but not this beach, which had the aura of a beer commercial that backfired, that made you want the beer even less than you did before the advertisement erupted onto your television, screaming about fun. There was a bar and grill, an Italian place, another bar and grill, a maternity shop called Mamma Mia!, a fenced-in lot with pictures promising condos. It’s like a dream,” she said as her husband drove past all of the places to spend the money they didn’t have. “I can’t believe we’re so close to the beach. She was used to the aching distance between the things she said and the things she felt it seemed to be how she was structured now. Cohen moved to Florida.ĭuring her first days in the state she proclaimed the beauty of everything, while inwardly hating it.
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