My wife made me baked apples. “Absolutely anybody can bake an apple” she said dismissively, eyeing me with pity. Half my face swollen like a cantaloupe in August, the inside of my mouth bandaged from dreaded dental work, I’m reduced to foods easily slurped. With butter and ginger and cinnamon, the apples roasted until skins separated from flesh, pulp withering into liquid caramel.

Partnerships are trying. On off days, suburban-thin walls can’t contain slammed doors, hurled words…