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The comma is a punctuation mark, mistress of the period, slave of the semicolon. It separates ideas within the structure of a sentence; it's a pause, a caesura. Or so the dictionary says.

The comma, like all symbols in the world, holds profound meaning for many people. Lawyers use it as a tool of mercy in their tortuous statements. The literati adore it, despise it -- why, wasn't, it, Jose, Garcia, Villa, himself, who, made, the, comma, famous? Optimists see the apostrophe as comma in transcendence; pessimists see the comma as apostrophe condemned to earthly life.

Me and Her hold the comma in reverence, too. We adore it, despise it, like we do with all our gods. Our ziggurat is the phone line, our ritual the conversation. Her comma is a brief moment of peace, a time to recollect thoughts scrambled by loud words and louder silence, an unspoken armistice.

My comma is an obstacle, a rage-inducing eternal pause, undoubtedly illogical -- why, every sentence must end in a period, an exclamation, a question! I want to get my point across, clean up the mess, and settle the matter. My comma is my foe.

Differing opinions, comma deified, comma vilified. But one thing is certain -- comma means one thing for both of us,