It was like they were praying for their lives.

But the video: these grainy ghosts were on the screen. This young girl sat in a chair in her wedding dress. Her legs were spread open, and she looked beat out from smiling. Her guy sat next to her. A jacket was across his lap, and his short collar was unbuttoned. He looked drunk, and the head jerked back every so often. He moved onto the ground over to her, and I thought, He's going to eat her out or something. But he laid his head in her lap. She played with his hair and ran a fingertip over a bald patch. He started running his hands up her leg and under her dress. I wasn't sure what I was watching.

Then they both looked into the camera. The guy spoke up. He said, I promise I will always remember to take the trash out so sour milk doesn't spill on your work dress. And she said, I promise I won't vacuum in the middle of the playoffs. And all this stuff started pouring out: I won't say we can't afford it in front of your dad. I won't be pulling your breasts out of your top when you are trying to study for class. I won't make fun of your brother's prosthetic leg. I won't talk about the time you kissed Richie at that party because that is gone now. I'll respect you in front of our children. When things are bad, I will always remember that you are my best friend.

It just kept coming and coming. They were like terror hostages on there.

—"Conditions" by Daniel Long, published in New York Tyrant 3.3