Read The Late, Lamented Molly Marx for Free Online

later. Anything, do you hear? In the Duration, I’m your Sherpa, remember?”
    But it’s all too much. I feel as if I’m at a job interview where I’ve been quizzed for two hours and now can’t manufacture one intelligent question in response. “These powers I have, Bob,” I say finally. “How long will they last?”
    There isn’t a harp in sight, but someone has cued Elvis, who’s singing, “I can’t help falling in love with you.” The taste of raspberries is on my lips. In the distance, a Milky Way of dewy white roses catches the morning light and, faintly, their fragrance wafts our way. It is a fragrance far more pleasing to my nose than Eternity.
    “Molly, that I can’t tell you, because I don’t know. None of us knows. But you are lucky—for most people, these powers are over before they even get here. For a few, of course, they last forever.” Bobtouches my arm. “I believe,” he says, “and this is purely private speculation, that our powers last only as long as they need to last. I am not a religious man, though neither am I a cynic.”
    I blink.
    Bob is gone. Nearby, a plump robin lands on a branch. I could swear I see it wink.

Seven

A FOOTNOTE IN BRIDAL HISTORY
    arry and I were married in my parents’ backyard beneath a canopy of willow branches twinkling with—may the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob forgive me—tiny white Christmas lights. Rain misted us halfway through the seven benedictions, so by the time I heard “makest the bridegroom to rejoice in his bride,” I was fully engrossed in whether my hair would frizz and thought only for an instant about Barry.
    Several months before the wedding, at a restaurant in the Village where Barry and I went for my birthday lunch—I was turning twenty-seven—I found a Burberry box on my chair. Attached to an umbrella inside was a poem Barry had written about protecting me from life’s storms. There was also a hunky emerald-cut diamond ring.
    I stared at it as if it might explode. We hadn’t even talked about living together. I was hoping Barry might be extravagant, and had visions of an Art Deco bracelet or a pair of expensive gold hoop earrings I’d been stalking at Saks. Instead, after only six months of dating, he was asking me to marry him.
    “Molly Divine, you are the woman for me,” he said. “I knew that the moment I met you.”
    After Barry and I had briefly dated in college, I’d had three serious relationships: Trevor, who dumped me for Sarah; Jeff, whom I dumped when I began falling asleep during sex; and Christian, whom I broke up with not because he was Christian but because if your idea of hors d’oeuvres is deviled eggs made with Miracle Whip, you can’t grow old beside me.
    I considered Barry’s good qualities. There was his playful manner with friends’ small children, and his ability to navigate life without maps—the man was a living, breathing GPS who from memory or by scent, for all I know, could retrace his steps five years later to a remote address he’d visited once, while I have the uncanny ability to consistently turn left for every right. I considered the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the length and steadiness of his immaculate surgeon’s fingers. I noted the fact that he seemed to know exactly the life he wanted, whereas I couldn’t tell you if I’d rather eat a Cobb salad or tuna for lunch.
    I liked that he liked me. Wanted me. Loved me, apparently.
    I decided on the spot that twenty-seven was the perfect age at which to get engaged: you’re young enough not to be too cynical or wrinkled for a long white dress, and old enough—presumably—to know what you’re getting into. You also have a fair shot at conceiving before life becomes hot-and-cold running infertility specialists.
    The day he popped the question, Barry Marx had all the right words. “I will marry my soul to yours,” he said. I cried, spilling tears on the tablecloth. I actually thanked him for proposing.
    He