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She took a huge bite out of her chimichanga, and greasy cheese oozed down her chin.

“Bastian complains about his wife, too,” I said. “When we first started working together, he insisted that we do very little talking to each other and focus all our energies on listening. But lately, he fills the time in between subjects with stories about how his wife is just a mommy now and doesn't want to talk about art or philosophy or politics or anything important, which is just so bizarre because this is exactly how I pictured it in my fantasies.”

“Of course it is,” Dexy said, holding up a sour-cream-covered finger. “They've all got the ‘my wife doesn't understand me' rap. Every single one of them.”

“I know,” I said. “I've done my research.” I'd Googled every women's magazine article on the subject of adultery. “Did it feel weird to do it? To know you were responsible for destroying the marriage vows?”

Dexy snorted. “Since when have you become such a traditionalist?”

“I'm not,” I said. “It's just . . .”

“Look, I did the guy because he was hot as hell and I knew he would worship my young, nubile body,” she ran her hands over her own breasts for emphasis, leaving oily R-rated prints behind on her geometric-print shift dress. “It was the ultimate fling because I knew he would never leave his wife, no matter how much he said he couldn't stand her. It was fun. And then it was over.”

“I'm not so sure that I could be so . . .” I wanted to say “slutty.” But she was my best friend. “Cavalier.”

“I doubt you would, Dah-ling,” she said, patting my head with her moist hand. “You're still freaking out over hooking up with Mini Dub, which wasn't even sex and happened almost a year ago! I love you, but you're a bit too tightly wound for adultery.” She balled up her dirty napkin and threw it on her plate as if to say, and that's the end of that.

I didn't say much on the walk back to the dorm because I was so irritated. Why should Dexy be so carefree, so guilt-free about her life, while I agonized over the tiniest transgressions? She said and did whatever she wanted and never suffered any negative repercussions. When I said or did something unexpected, or even thought about saying or doing something unexpected, it always seemed to come back to haunt me. There isn't a television set large enough to house all my psychological poltergeists.

Case in point: When I got to the dorm, there was something in my mailbox. Dexy noticed it too, and knew what it was.

“It's a sign, J! A sign!” She shimmied in her go-go boots, she was so excited.

I was more cautious. I slowly stuck my key in the lock and pulled it out, picture up. On it, a photo of the earth from outer space, beneath which were the words: Nuestro mundo.

I flipped it over. It was postmarked Nuevo Viejo, California, on June 20. It read:

Jessica—

OUR

—Marcus

I . . . WISH . . . OUR . . .

Sitting there, postcard in my hands, I made a wish of my own:

Stop, Marcus. Go, Jessica.

* * *

July 4th

Dear Hope,

Let me be the first to wish you an early Happy Bastille Day! Your last letter was so vivid that I almost felt like I was atop the Eiffel Tower with you, looking down on the famed City of Lights.

But, alas, I was not.

As for my own European adventures, I'm heeding your advice and backing off Bastian for a while. So I'm in Pineville at the moment, just in time for the cicada invasion. Millions of these buzzing, red-beady-eyed insects have waited underground for seventeen years, before crawling up through the earth to see the light of the sun for the first time. The lucky ones go vertical to shed their shells—climbing trees, telephone poles, pant legs—before mating and propagating. The unlucky ones get squashed by bike tires, lawn mowers, and toddlers' tiny feet, never getting the chance to fulfill their instinctual urges. Pineville vibrates with their ominous presence, yet surrounding towns are totally unaffected. I'm not one to quote the Good Book, but these invaders do have biblical implications. Believe me, you're much better off on the other side of the ocean.

Apocalyptically