Poppy and her husband had seven freckles between the two of them. She had five; he had two. Strangely, these two numbers weaved themselves into every division of their domesticity. Poppy woke up at five in the morning, every morning, to drive to the office (she worked at a lab that developed vegan cheese); her husband Jim slept in until two in the afternoon, every afternoon. She spent at least five times as much money in a week than him, and he started the arguments twice as much. When they did argue, which was becoming increasingly increasing, it was usually the result of something unforeseen, like a broken rim on a teacup, or a sweat of fog still lingering over the bathroom mirror. It was in the long pockets of despair that followed these fights that Poppy wondered why she married this strange man in the first place. Sometimes, she would dig her wedding dress out from a cupboard she could only reach from a stepping stool and trace her fingers along the stitched lace lining. When she took her hand away, faint stars of glitter would cling to her wrists just like her heart which clung to her broken marriage, and she knew she could never go back to a time before him. Not out of love, or desperation, or any sort of sentiment - but how can she be forty-seven, married with two grown children, and not believe in love? So every single time, without fail, Poppy refolds the dress and lays it back in its box like a portable time machine, sighs deeply and painfully, as if dispelling any sort of feeling from her body, and starts on dinner.