I wonder if he's heard the entire Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

There is something not quite right about the way I hold my coffee cups clasped in both my hands before me like a prayer, raised to the no-man's-land level between my eyes and mouth, too far to smell but close enough to create a flimsy wall of steam between myself and the world.

I do not know if it is the cause or the effect of the annual event of my father giving my mother flowers and a card on Valentine's Day. Their anniversary is the most frightening day of the year, one my father hopes to live through and one my mother spends looking up divorce lawyers in the Yellow Pages.

She is watching CNN - which I do not understand; she works there and complains about it five days a week - and turns up the volume three levels for every plea he makes. My walls are shaking and I swear I can hear Wolf's cyborg heartbeat and the rustling of paperwork behind the scenes.

I promised not to get my heart set on any certain college, but I did, and they keep sending me DVDs of their student films, photographic prints, and samples from their fashion department. They know I want this, they know I need this. The guy on the other end of the line sets up an appointment to speak with an admissions officer, and I debate whether crying and pleading for financial aid and describing what happens on Valentine's Day will get me in.

I have an hour and one minute to decide.