I could promise a wife—at home, I have lots of time around my family to compare/contrast real relationships to imaginary ones—that I will run any errand she needs after 7:00 p.m., especially if it’s to the grocery store (my favorite) or Dairy Queen. Whatever pops up, like if she needs shampoo or printer paper or her car filled up, I can do that. I would like to.

[Idea for new dating site: Post a list of things you could affirmatively promise a spouse, then choose to contact people based on their lists.]

Twice a year my family used to visit my grandfather’s beach house in St. Augustine. My bedroom had a queen bed in it, which at 16 feels as big as an ocean. The arrangement made me so wistful, because the house was beautiful and looked out on the water, and it felt like a waste to have all that empty bed. In my whole life, the times I remember most feeling like my heart was going to rip out of my chest, for wanting a girl next to me, was lying in that bed trying to go to sleep. The moon was bright, you know? I miss St. Augustine.

My parents’ house—I never lived in this particular house, so I am staying in the guest room. The bed is king-sized. It is so tall that you have to take a running jump onto it. My mom has piled up 15 pillows, I cannot count them all. There are nine layers of sheets and blankets.

I feel more anxious-wistful here than at the beach, because it would be fun to crawl around in the mess of covers, but also because to have someone here to help me navigate family tension and questions about school and chitchat with cousins-twice-removed would be the greatest. It would be fun to live into that “home for the holidays” cliche, maybe.

Blossom Dearie is playing on shuffle; I had not paid attention to the lyrics to “Someone to Watch Over Me” until now. “I’d like to add her initial to my monogram/ Tell me where’s the shepherd for this lost lamb.” The 50s did a lot of things right.

But then they pull one of these: “Although she may not be the girl some men think of/ As handsome to my heart/ She carries the key.” As in, she’s a dog, but I love her? What a jerk. I hate how mean Rob Petrie was to Laura, too.