Inscrutable brownstone

In the inscrutable brownstone, we entered our numbers into a website to see what they spelled, if anything. "That's called vanity," you said.

The house was an asterisk that stood thoughtfully outside the Park, where a French expat mother soothed her child. "Margot," she said, "this stick is just like the one that got took away - in fact, it's better."

The house was a kibbutz ablaze with lamps and mixed company. We called you again and again to hear the Gnarls Barkley song that is your ringtone. "Does that make me crazy? Probably." You danced, ruddy. Your borrowed maternity jacket billowed.

That night I dreamt Amelia Earhart came into the kitchen and found me hanging by my hands from a high shelf. "Oh, just getting some plates down," I said, and kept hanging. "I thought Amelia Earhart never broke for lunch," I said. "I brought you some sugar," she said. Gnarls Barkley crooned, "Well I think you're crazy. Just like me."

You said, "I like the way you dream." The blackout curtains billowed. "You can't spell that sound," I said, "you can only write down some musical notes to approximate it."