Perfect Circle

The man at the party asks, “What’s your favorite Bruce song?” and you want to name one of the sprawling blue-collar tragedies the radio never plays but you’ve known this man for five minutes and already see he will destroy you, with his magnitude and mustache and big drumstick forearms, the simple jeans and black tattoos, the smoking smell of him, his words a low music, you could dance to him all night, you could crawl on him forever, you are an ant and he is a planet, this man who, when you mentioned your husband, asked, “Is he here?” and you joked, “I made him stay home with the kids,” though your husband had volunteered, he thought it would be good for you to get out, have fun, but in the haze of marriage, he’d forgotten, like you’d forgotten, that your idea of fun is what Bruce…