The Snarks went house shopping this weekend.

And it was good. No, no future home came out of it, but they've made a connection with a realtor who seems honest enough. He might have laughed a little too hard at some of Snarky's jokes, but they were pretty damn funny.

They went to eight houses in about four hours. It was good to feel them all out, interact with them. But it was also very tiring. Walking through the empty spaces, voices echoing off of outdated tiles and fugly cabinetry. Each room demanded five alternative placements for beds, sofas, coffee tables (Yes, the Snarks own two. No, they don't exactly know how that happened.)

Each house was the setting for a new part of their lives together. Each house was the beginning of a different path. Their minds bloomed, unfurled into these eight different paths. Lifetimes bubbled forth like kudzu, trying to cover every inch of possibility.

But none of the stories were quite right. The corners were too sudden, the proportions grating against some invisible outline. They reeled back in all the strands of possiblity. Wrapped them into loose hanks to hang at the ready for the next throw.

Later that night, Snarky stood naked in front of the half-mirror in their tiny apartment "walk in" (more like, "side-step in and pivot") closet. She looked at herself, tried to prognosticate. Perhaps it was the morning's house-hunting exercises that gave her flickering future-visions. She saw herself whole, hearty, healthy. She saw herself shriveled, diminished, in pieces. She touched her chest and tried to find a clue to what the next chapter would bring.