A Morning Out of the Office

I spend the last few hours of darkness dreaming of a different world.  When the sun rises, I dress with care.  I twirl my curls round and round an iron, careful that each one is as tightly wound as the next.  I repair a tiny chip in my nail polish. I count the lights as I switch them off.  I dab a little extra perfume on my wrists.

There are not enough tasks in the quiet hours to make me forget what I'm doing today.  Later, there are not enough busy hours to make me forget what I've said goodbye to.



I lock the front door.  Twist the handle.   Double check.  Count my breaths on the way to the car.  Between each heartbeat is a memory I don't want to see.

Airport doors sliding open, blinding light, and two arms holding together all the pieces of me that were broken by months of loneliness and longing.

I sit in the car for a moment, check my reflection in the rear view mirror.

Anger.  I am filled with anger.  So much so that I thrust my arm forward and launch the contents of my glass across the kitchen.  I don't feel regret until the liquid and ice is arching through the air.  It misses its mark, but splashes across his shoulders.  I have no time to move before he's aimed the sink sprayer at my face.  Drenched, I fumble in the floor for dropped ice cubes, but he's faster.  Five minutes later we fall together into the small lake in the floor.  He leans against the wall and pulls my back into his chest, arms wrapping around my waist, fingers forcing ice cubes from my hands, and buries his face in my sopping hair.  "I'm sorry.  I'll try harder."

I count the traffic lights.  It seems I'm stopping at every one.  By the third, I've chipped away a corner of my nail polish again.

Unkempt grass brushes the sides of my feet over the edges of my ballet flats.  I wish someone had cut it before the promotion ceremony.  It's been a long road to this day.  It should be perfect.  When he steps forward, he thanks his peers and leaders, and then, when I think he's finished, he looks directly at me.  He tells the crowd around us that he has a wife to be proud of.  That she is his best confidant.  He looks away.  Steps back in line.  I memorize how it feels -- savoring the way the grass scratches at my foot, the way the stares of women around me burn the back of my neck, the warm line down my cheek where a tear ran toward my chin.  This day is perfect.

It takes me thirty three minutes to drive to my hometown.  It takes no time at all to find parking outside the little downtown court house.  When I pull the heavy front door open, I notice that one of my fingernails is missing all its polish.

The sun is hot through the windows of his mother's car.  He's looking at me with an expression I've never seen before.  It isn't anger.  It isn't disinterest.  It's something more like disgust.  I can feel myself falling to pieces, but I am too afraid to be embarrassed.  I say things that sound foolish even as they leave my mouth.  And in the end, he reaches across me, pushes open the car door, and says, "I'm done.  You're just wasting my time now."  He means he's done with this conversation.  But he also means he's done with me.  He means he's done with our life.

When my best friend finds me in the parking lot, all I can say is "I can't."  I say it so many times that it takes on a thousand different meanings.  I can't do this.  I can't survive this.  Can't believe this. Can't fix this.  Can't allow this.  Can't want this.  Can't give up.  Can't ever go back.  I just...can't.

I find my way upstairs and hand three stapled pages to a lady with kind eyes.  "I was divorced recently.  I'm applying for my name change today.  I just need to have these papers certified."  There is pity in her smile when she stamps the bottom of my divorce decree.

We lay together on a twin mattress, staring at the textured plaster ceiling.  "Would you come with me, if you could?"  "Is that an option?"  "It would be, if we were married."

"I'm sorry," says the lady with kind eyes.

"It's okay," I tell her. "I'm okay."  And that's true, after all.  I have a whole new life now.  A better life.  But she doesn't look convinced.  "Really," I tell her.  "I wouldn't change it if I could."

The drive back to the office is uneventful.

"Did you get your name changed?" My coworkers are excited for me.

"I did." I smile.  A teller beams back at me.

"Congratulations!"

Alone in my office, I finish chipping off my nail polish.  It's done.  I've given away the last thing I had of my husband's.  It's finally over.

We've only been together, in Germany, for a few hours.  Our first home is empty -- our belongings won't arrive for another four weeks -- but my heart is so full. We're curled onto a blanket on the shining wood floor.  Our voices echo around us.

"Do you still love me?" I tease, drifting into sleep after ten restless hours on a plane.

"Of course I do."

"Will you love me forever?"

"Yes, love."

"Promise?"

"I promise."