Stars crack the sky, purple and black and interrupted. They quiver against the crimson dome. It's sealed shut above me and I think the air is running out. The stars look like light bulbs, flickering on and off even when they're not supposed to.  They are white, bleached by the sun. They are white holes in the sky.  I watch seven birds flying in a row; a boomerang. They are perfectly in sync with one another and beat their wings rhythmically, silently. The light bulb stars are flickering on and off. The sky is powdered sugar.
  I write a list of everything he wants, and make scratches on the table, which is already scratched. The tablecloth that used to cover the cracks is gone. I don't know where it went, but it's my fault that it's gone. I don't know why it's my fault. The radio doesn't work. I hear music in my head. It sounds like stars. The stars are like birds. The sky is powdered sugar.
Milk, flour, eggs, and cereal. Maybe peanut butter. He asked for more,  but he wants too much.  I remember when I had so much more, and he really looked at me. I remember when he saw me. Now, he just sees the scratches on the table, the broken radio, his stomach and my stomach, which isn't pretty anymore. Suddenly, there's no music in my head, there's no stars. The house is smaller every day. Three people won't fit. I remember when the house was big enough for both of us.
  Sitting in my car, the engine breathes. I breathe too. The radio works, and it's playing things I don't want to hear. The stations are fuzzy. I turn it off, and listen to the music like stars in my head. I like this better. The wheel is clockwise in my hands.  The rubber stings my fingers, and I don't know why.  I spin away from the house that's too small and the radio that doesn't work, and drive straight.  My pupils are swimming pools in the mirror and my eyes are at the bottom, drowning. I wonder why they look so tired.  I wonder why I look so different. Yellow lines on grey pebbles guide me. They lead to milk, flour, eggs, and cereal. The rubber still stings my hands.  I don't know why.
The parking lot is empty. Red letters glow in the sky; "Save Mart." They get bigger and bigger as I pull into my usual spot. There's a tree next to me, and sometimes it's shady here. The engine is quiet as I pull the key out of the ignition. Air stops coming out of the vents. Songs stop coming on the radio.  I stop humming along. I open the door and grab my bag.  The car beeps.  I forgot to lock it. The headlights flash on and off as I walk away. The doors click shut.
The cart handle is frozen in my palms, which are white and dry and feel like sandpaper against everything I touch. The cart rams into a stack of "Skippy" and they roll onto the floor. I walk away, leaving the cart behind. I grab a basket. My hands like my stomach as they reach for it and smile. My basket is light, and I wonder what I forgot.  I'm sure he knows, but I wish he didn't.  I never buy enough groceries.  He tells me to save money, to think about the future, but I never do anything right. I'm never enough.  Black lines cover my shopping list. The slit in the register is too strong and my hands can't pull away. My credit card has written a receipt. I rip the piece of paper away and shove it into a bag. Milk, flour, eggs, and cereal.  No peanut butter. The engine breathes, and  I breathe too. I listen to the music like stars in my head. My swimming pool pupils are black as my eyelids close for a moment. Someone turns over in my stomach. I share the music and I share the stars. The swimming pools are light as I open my eyes and squint through the window. Red and blue lights reflect on the dashboard, and a siren dances up and down. The sounds fade away. I look at myself in the rear-view mirror.  I look different from behind.  I watch the red "Save Mart" sign disappear. Yellow lines tell me where to go. They lead to a house that is too small, a table that is scratched, a radio that doesn't work. I lift my foot off the pedal and listen to the stars in my head.
The bags are heavy in my hands . Something turns in my stomach.  No, someone.  Now, there's no music to share,  no stars.  I stare at the house that is too small and wonder who lives there. There are three steps to the door. My hand is suspended above the lock. My hands quiver like the stars.
He tells me I forgot peanut butter. He yells noise I can't hear. The music sounds like stars in my head and blots out his words. 
"Are you listening?"
"Yes."
The stars are louder now. He yells through the music and I don't listen to what he says. I reach down to my stomach and find someone there.   I think I like it, but I can't tell. The stars are louder. The yelling fades. The music fades. Everything fades away. 
"How was your day?" He asks me tiredly, with his face in his hands and his eyes on the table.
"Fine. I talked to your mom on the phone, she's coming in a month to help us out."
"She can't fix me, Cecelia. She does this every time; thinks I'm broken and tries to make me better, but it never helps and I don't want to hurt her anymore. We're doing just fine without her."
"We don't even have scissors."
"We can take care of ourselves, why do we need my mother?" He says.
"No we can't, we can't afford peanut butter. How the hell are we going to afford a kid?"
"Celia, this job is going to work out.  I talked to Charles and he said I could get a permanent position at the firm. He said I had an in."
"But you don't know that, Patch."
"Yes I do. Why can't you just trust me?"
"Because you don't follow through! Because you say all these things but they're just words. They don't mean anything anymore! You say all this stuff and make all these promises but they're lies! Everything you say is dirt. Everything you say is nothing." He picks up his keys and walks out the door.
The sheets are cold beside me and I wish they were warm.  I wish I hadn't said anything. Spider-webbed shadows are all over the room. I can see the stars outside, like cracks in the sky. Like flickering light bulbs. They never stay on. Bleached by the sun, they are holes in the sky. The sky is powdered sugar.