Mary: [Voiceover] I once dated a man who taught quantum physics. I learned two things that night. The first being, if you ask a quantum physicist to explain how gravity works—not what it is, not how it behaves, but how it works—he will first talk himself in circles, then wind up crying, and finally, sometime between entree and dessert, call you a bitch and leave. . . .
The second revelation came as I sat at the bar in morose solitude, pondering the cantilevered relationship between bartenders, gut ,and lower extremities, and this is important, so pay attention: before the big bang, before time itself, before matter, energy, velocity, there existed a single immeasurable state called yearning. This is the special force that on the day before days obliterated nothing into everything. It is the unseen strings tying planets to stars. It is the maddening want we feel from from first breath to last light.
The second revelation came as I sat at the bar in morose solitude, pondering the cantilevered relationship between bartenders, gut ,and lower extremities, and this is important, so pay attention: before the big bang, before time itself, before matter, energy, velocity, there existed a single immeasurable state called yearning. This is the special force that on the day before days obliterated nothing into everything. It is the unseen strings tying planets to stars. It is the maddening want we feel from from first breath to last light.
And it's not just the writing, but the way that monologue, recited calmly and in an unhurried way, and ending a long, difficult, double-braided story, is accompanied by a softly played acoustic guitar and scenes of two couples, each where one person is struggling with failure and shame and where their partner is gently offering them support and hope and love.