I like to play around on the piano, though I’m no pro. What I don’t enjoy is pausing to turn pages, or worse, spreading them out and propping them up in front of me. Pages fly every time the air conditioner kicks in. For some songs that’s fine, but who really wants to hear page six of Hey Jude?

Commitment is an act, not a word. Now, I want you two to demonstrate the love you share, right here in the office.

On a typical sleepy Sunday morning in Glendale, California, Kyle and his wife, Noelle, were setting up lawn chairs for their garage sale. A small playing card table was situated between them with a pitcher of ice tea and two cups. A sign on a makeshift sandwich board read: GARAGE SALE. ALL SALES ARE FINAL. This was the second attempt as the previous day a steady drizzle had kept only but a handful of the bargain hunters away.

Being the survivor of a happy union, ’til death do us part, would have been less painful than the daily combat of annulment crossfire. I flipped through my soon-to-be ex-husband’s proposed divorce settlement with a feeling of loss, disappointed that decades of a life together would end in acrimony. Why should I be expected to settle for less than I deserved? The deadline to sign was approaching.

Life has been a little weird since that portal opened up. At first everyone was all “Oh my God! Hell Beasts are flooding the earth, seas, and skies! We’re going to die!” and the government was telling us to arm ourselves to the teeth. I’d never bought a gun in my life, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.