It called itself a “white marriage.” Not as in being “white,” but as in blankness. The trouble is that white hides every color inside itself. No matter. Its sheets were blinding, bleached to a fare-thee-well, soft as the pelts of rabbits. Its house shimmered in sunlight. The other marriages envied its coolness, like that of an empty concert hall set with skeletal music stands. Like footsteps on marble, gloves on a salver, a palace at 4 am. In comparison the other marriages felt like bumper cars held from above by metal arms. Vulgarly clashing for a few moments; disengaging; clashing again.