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makes me think of Friday Night Lights (the excellent TV series, not the film). full disclosure: my brother wrote this.

At the Home of Westley Wiggington

I understand the need for these special occasions,
the footballers with their vocabulary, white jackets
walking between folding tables, harsh women with
hair tightly pinned scuttling about holding bowls
of grapes; fountains, children, and expensive grass.
The limes must be sliced. But, dammit, why can’t
we do something simple for once? Something
on the lake, maybe, just for the weekend? With
the boys? Or how about a game of Scrabble some
night, with root beer floats, after dinner? I will

talk to you about it afterward, dear. But I couldn’t
keep it to myself, all this space compressed, all
your friends discussing investments and their sons’
lacrosse statistics. I’ll go get some more ice. But

all I want is more room between things, you know?