At first she will be hungry. A midwestern sort of hungry that will set her gorging on pretzel rolls and footlong hotdogs. Emptying the refrigerator of ketchup packets and tiny pats of margarine. Do not panic. It will be a midwestern sort of wanting when she looks at you, her lips chapping around her straw, filled with cracked riverbeds and sycamore trees. She will move you neighborhood by neighborhood to get closer to the water. The apartments will have high ceilings and dark corners that will never be clean. You’ll no sooner have unpacked the toaster than she will swayed by refurbished french doors or a clawfoot tub. You’ll get used to it, the way she wraps her new legs around yours in the bed. It will be comfortable, but a midwestern sort of comfortable, subject to wind and weather at all times.