Restraint may not come naturally to you, Anthony, but we have reservations. Listen to me, baby, because I know a few things. For starters, I know your headaches were scams, I know that all those late-night trips to the drugstore were, in reality, frenzied jags to the 24-hour rodeo downtown. I know that you quit your job at the airport six months ago. “The public is ruining me,” you always whined, nuzzling your sweaty face into my sports bra after Friday night aerobics. As though selling piñatas to widows and tourists was such a strain on your psyche. You lack character. Remember when you invited those Jehovah’s Witnesses into our house and spun Velvet Underground records and sobbed as you played air guitar and persuaded them, with ascetic ingenuity, to seek God in noise? They thanked you. I don’t know, Anthony. You claim the world is leaking neon. You told the babysitter that history is an inside joke carved in cuneiform upon your scrotum. Such seductive bravado! When you sent our Congressman poetry written by the Alzheimer’s patients down the street, I was ready to file a restraining order, but – wouldn’t you know? – the Congressman wrote back informing you of his resignation. “You have rekindled my faith in a more substantial future, and I hope to meet you there,” his letter concluded. What will he do now? There have been other peculiar occurrences. Strangers applaud you in public restrooms. Last week the Methodist church on the square begged you to lead a mission trip to the woods where you lost your virginity. You’ve stopped looking in mirrors for fear of catching amnesia. White tulips grow miraculously from the floorboard of your Suburban. You wonder aloud, often and in Mandarin, how it can be so good, and I nod in demure bewilderment, as breathless and thrilled as a lion cub in a downpour. But I am asking you, Anthony, please, please put down that baguette. Anniversary or no anniversary, you cannot start a food fight here. Not tonight. Sit down, my love. Have a drink. Consider ordering the saddle of spring lamb. Liken my smile to a filigree of frost. Listen to me. Try to remember. We have reservations.