Listen. It’s me you’re talking to here. Patrick Wilson, your skeptical husband, furrowed brow, forehead high with suspicion, always pinching my eyes to look harder at you. Don’t you know you can trust me? Don’t I know I can trust you? Haven’t we always been in this house together, trusting each other? Haven’t we? Can’t I believe you? Can’t you believe me? Aren’t I your husband, six foot exactly, never had a mustache? You’re so nervous. I believe that. You’re so worried. I believe that. I believe my wife is worried. Of course I love you. You’re my wife, aren’t you? You’re my white wife. You’re the biggest worried legal baby whiteness ever made, and the state wrapped me all the way around you for the best-ever reasons. You’re my wife. Can you believe it? I just don’t know. It’s not that I don’t trust you, honey. It’s not that I don’t believe you. Just give me a minute. I’m about to start believing even more. I already believe you. But what do you want from me? I’m sure that you’re sure, and I’m sure you’re my wife, and I’m sure that we’re white and we’re worried, and I’m going to be in charge of okay. Okay? Look at me. Don’t you know I’m Patrick Wilson, that I’m every white husband God ever made, and that I’m all the way switched-on into belief? I couldn’t believe you more. I’m just not sure. God didn’t make me sure, but he did make me your husband. Can’t you see me in my husband shirt? Look at how much I’m your husband. Look at how hard I’m trying. I’m Patrick Wilson, and we’re married. Aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re married?
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