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Italy was supposed to solve everything. When it didn’t, we visited Alaska. Nothing worked, not the best food in the world nor the fear of being suctioned onto a toilet permanently in the event of an emergency. No amount of travel helped, and yet we went to Maryland. Oysters are delicious, but it wasn’t our sex life in need of more presence. I wept openly in an Italian restaurant after asking my mother and stepfather if I could come back home and she asked, “why?” The irony wasn’t lost on me: three of us at a table for four, a restaurant reminder of my previous attempt at correcting the emptiness. How could I have so completely misunderstood love? How could I have so completely misunderstood myself and what I need? I could blame the eighties for my belief that all a relationship needs is good sex, but that’d be cheating.