n a festive mood, they invited friends, making dip from pinto beans, blending margaritas.
      Nobody showed. They sat on the sofa, drinking the drinks, eating chips and dip. They took deep breaths.
      “What’s the point,” he said. He went and cleaned the dishes. “These are great,” she said, finishing her third margarita.
      He called the blender an ice crusher, and she kept telling him, no, it’s called a blender.
      In bed, they lay looking at the ceiling. “What do you expect,” he said. He’d been gone for two months, visiting his country. She didn’t live in this town, but she used to. While he was visiting his country, she’d driven to his place on weekends. She loved sleeping in his bed, even if he wasn’t in it. Once, when a tree of his went down, she called him in his country, and his mother answered. He wasn’t there. She instructed the mother in clear English to Have. Him. Call. Home. The mother said, This. Is. Home.
      They lay in bed. He said he wanted to go home. He had a big bed. He was almost to the edge.