my face.
Finally, the car behind me gave a polite little honk on his horn. I was blocking the pumps.
“Exactly,” I said out loud, giving the driver a little wave of acknowledgment. “Get a move on,” I said to myself. I started the Porsche and pulled away.
It didn’t take long for word to get around at work that Mark and I had split. I don’t remember telling anyone. Maybe it was acknowledged when Claire put the tip of her index finger on the ring finger of my left hand, where the robin’s egg diamond had been.
“I’m sorry, dear,” was all she said. I really loved her for not asking questions.
My paralegals were not quite as circumspect, but they were smart girls. Sarah asked twice, and twice got the same answer.
“Mark and I are taking a break.” When I said it the second time, she was smart enough not to ask again. Lily looked at me with an invitation in her eyes to talk, which I declined with a little shake of my head. And because it was Lily, she acknowledged that with a slight nod of her head.
A month or two later, Tony Stevens was true to form, and in a weird way, I kind of appreciated it.
“Sorry about you and Mark,” he said in his first breath. “You want to grab a drink after work?” he asked in his second.
When I laughed out loud at him, at first he looked perplexed, then said, “I mean to talk about it. Really. Unless… never mind,” and he walked away.
Tony would not have been my first choice of a shoulder to cry on and he knew it. And he knew, though maybe no sooner than I did, that a shoulder wasn’t what was being offered.
I wasn’t in the mood to cry on shoulders anyway.
Mark and I never had “the talk.” One day I got divorce papers in regular mail, not even certified, with a letter from Max Moore, “not representing Mark in a legal sense, but helping him through this difficult time,” expressing regret at the breakup, regret that I would not ever be able to join their firm.
Enclosed was a check that represented what Max Moore wrote was “a possible difference between Mark’s income and your income for a period of three years.”
It was a very, very sizable check. Either Mark was making much, much more than I knew, or they thought I was making much less than I was. But they never asked for numbers and neither did I. For a variety of reasons — don’t ask — I signed the papers and sent them back without even a note.
But since I know you have to ask, I did put that check in the bank.
When papers came to list the house on Queen Anne Hill, I recognized the name of the real estate firm and I signed those, too. I made no comment, no muss, no fuss. When the house sold, I signed the escrow documents. We made a very nice profit.
When the papers came to sell the house out on Whidbey Island, I signed the listing agreement, then the escrow. We lost a little money on that one, but not enough to squawk about.
I got title to the Porsche in the mail. I didn’t even know Mark had the title; I hadn’t remembered it was in both our names. He signed his interest over to me for $1, and he certified that $1 had already been received. I sent a $1 bill back to him, folded in the same envelope and inside a business envelope. Again, no note.
Everything passes, everything wears out, everything breaks.
For a long time, and no, I really don’t know how long, because to figure it out would take time I’d rather spend doing almost anything else, I did not go out. I went to the gym. I ran, and even did well in a couple of marathons. Not great, but I set a personal best in the second one.
I didn’t travel much, because there was no place I particularly wanted to go alone, and there was nobody I really wanted to go with. I just wasn’t up for it.
After a while, I’d go with Sarah or Lily or both to a movie. Sometimes I’d go listen to music with other friends. Tony used to say some women “had the scent.” By that he meant that he could tell they were available for sex or a
Finally, the car behind me gave a polite little honk on his horn. I was blocking the pumps.
“Exactly,” I said out loud, giving the driver a little wave of acknowledgment. “Get a move on,” I said to myself. I started the Porsche and pulled away.
It didn’t take long for word to get around at work that Mark and I had split. I don’t remember telling anyone. Maybe it was acknowledged when Claire put the tip of her index finger on the ring finger of my left hand, where the robin’s egg diamond had been.
“I’m sorry, dear,” was all she said. I really loved her for not asking questions.
My paralegals were not quite as circumspect, but they were smart girls. Sarah asked twice, and twice got the same answer.
“Mark and I are taking a break.” When I said it the second time, she was smart enough not to ask again. Lily looked at me with an invitation in her eyes to talk, which I declined with a little shake of my head. And because it was Lily, she acknowledged that with a slight nod of her head.
A month or two later, Tony Stevens was true to form, and in a weird way, I kind of appreciated it.
“Sorry about you and Mark,” he said in his first breath. “You want to grab a drink after work?” he asked in his second.
When I laughed out loud at him, at first he looked perplexed, then said, “I mean to talk about it. Really. Unless… never mind,” and he walked away.
Tony would not have been my first choice of a shoulder to cry on and he knew it. And he knew, though maybe no sooner than I did, that a shoulder wasn’t what was being offered.
I wasn’t in the mood to cry on shoulders anyway.
Mark and I never had “the talk.” One day I got divorce papers in regular mail, not even certified, with a letter from Max Moore, “not representing Mark in a legal sense, but helping him through this difficult time,” expressing regret at the breakup, regret that I would not ever be able to join their firm.
Enclosed was a check that represented what Max Moore wrote was “a possible difference between Mark’s income and your income for a period of three years.”
It was a very, very sizable check. Either Mark was making much, much more than I knew, or they thought I was making much less than I was. But they never asked for numbers and neither did I. For a variety of reasons — don’t ask — I signed the papers and sent them back without even a note.
But since I know you have to ask, I did put that check in the bank.
When papers came to list the house on Queen Anne Hill, I recognized the name of the real estate firm and I signed those, too. I made no comment, no muss, no fuss. When the house sold, I signed the escrow documents. We made a very nice profit.
When the papers came to sell the house out on Whidbey Island, I signed the listing agreement, then the escrow. We lost a little money on that one, but not enough to squawk about.
I got title to the Porsche in the mail. I didn’t even know Mark had the title; I hadn’t remembered it was in both our names. He signed his interest over to me for $1, and he certified that $1 had already been received. I sent a $1 bill back to him, folded in the same envelope and inside a business envelope. Again, no note.
Everything passes, everything wears out, everything breaks.
For a long time, and no, I really don’t know how long, because to figure it out would take time I’d rather spend doing almost anything else, I did not go out. I went to the gym. I ran, and even did well in a couple of marathons. Not great, but I set a personal best in the second one.
I didn’t travel much, because there was no place I particularly wanted to go alone, and there was nobody I really wanted to go with. I just wasn’t up for it.
After a while, I’d go with Sarah or Lily or both to a movie. Sometimes I’d go listen to music with other friends. Tony used to say some women “had the scent.” By that he meant that he could tell they were available for sex or a
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