we’re idiots. Jack and Olympia are clueless. I mean, it’s not like we’re screaming and throwing plates or anything like that.”
“That’s trendy nowadays. Being separated under one roof.”
“Donald’s not trendy. He’s too busy running his career to file for a divorce. Plus, he’s worried about the optics. It’s the family guys who get promotions in the financial sector. Divorced guys look too unstable. Plus in our own financial sector, we can’t afford two roofs. And then there’re the kids. Neither of us wants to rock that boat. It seems easier to just co-exist.”
“Do you want a divorce?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Donald and I agreed to wait until I’ve finished my term at Dingwall and I find another job. Then we’ll figure out the next step.”
I’m tempted to tell her about Michael. As I prepare to open my mouth again, Bibienne says, “One of my clients almost divorced her husband over toothpaste scum.”
“Huh?”
“The guy never rinsed his toothbrush. He’d stick his brush back in the cup all covered with gunk. She asked him to stop and he couldn’t be bothered. Finally she decided he didn’t care about her needs. She asked for a divorce.”
“Just because he wouldn’t rinse his toothbrush?”
“Not just because. Think about it. It didn’t bother him. So it wasn’t important. But it bothered her. She had to look at his gross sticky saliva running down his toothbrush handle every day and decided it was all too much to bear. Plus he left his whiskers in the sink.”
“Ewww.”
We sit in silence and digest this for a moment.
“So then they got a divorce?”
“She kicked him out of the ensuite. He built himself a bathroom of his own in the basement.”
“So now she has a bathroom all to herself?”
“You got it.” Bibienne stares ahead into traffic. I know what she’s thinking. Get out the blueprints and floor plans. There’s got to be a way to get a bathroom of one’s own.
I jump out of bed at 5:30 and run out to the driveway to catch Donald, before he has a chance to get out the door to work. I have an urgent face-to-face request.
It rained last night. Donald is gingerly picking up orange peels and a mess of soggy newspapers that are strewn all across the front lawn. Looks like a neighborhood dog—most likely our very own neighborhood dog, George—raided the garbage cans again last night. Before Donald put the garbage out I texted him to suggest he wait until morning as all too often we wake up to a mess. He ignored me.
I struggle to keep from snorting and rolling my eyes to the sky, where fat drops of rain drain down from a mountain of grey clouds.
Donald glares at me. “What do you want?”
“I want to spend the weekend at Mom’s house. Alone. I need to catch up on my courses. I’m behind.”
Nestled in my purse are the keys to my mother’s house. She asked me to check on the house and water the plants while she’s off pretending to be Julia Roberts. Donald’s eyes shift over to land on Jasper who is sniffing at George’s bottom as he poops out a large brown mound on the grass beside me.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take the dogs with me. Serenity said she’d help out here.”
The benefit of Serenity’s helping hand doesn’t add much to my case but I’m grasping here. And, of course, there’s the unspoken part: with me gone, Donald can’t stay over in the city tonight.
“Do whatever you want.” Donald turns away and bends down to pick up an onion bag.
Mom’s bed is magical, all pillow topped and feathered and fluffed. How does she ever get up in the morning? The house is a wonderland of silence: no sounds of Jack and Olympia quarrelling, Donald yelling at them to pipe down, and Serenity and Shae attempting to drown everyone out with what sounds like a test-punk-rap-fist-fusion meltdown. The setting is ideal for studying, and I certainly intend toget cracking on that right away … right after I borrow one of Mom’s terry cloth
“That’s trendy nowadays. Being separated under one roof.”
“Donald’s not trendy. He’s too busy running his career to file for a divorce. Plus, he’s worried about the optics. It’s the family guys who get promotions in the financial sector. Divorced guys look too unstable. Plus in our own financial sector, we can’t afford two roofs. And then there’re the kids. Neither of us wants to rock that boat. It seems easier to just co-exist.”
“Do you want a divorce?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Donald and I agreed to wait until I’ve finished my term at Dingwall and I find another job. Then we’ll figure out the next step.”
I’m tempted to tell her about Michael. As I prepare to open my mouth again, Bibienne says, “One of my clients almost divorced her husband over toothpaste scum.”
“Huh?”
“The guy never rinsed his toothbrush. He’d stick his brush back in the cup all covered with gunk. She asked him to stop and he couldn’t be bothered. Finally she decided he didn’t care about her needs. She asked for a divorce.”
“Just because he wouldn’t rinse his toothbrush?”
“Not just because. Think about it. It didn’t bother him. So it wasn’t important. But it bothered her. She had to look at his gross sticky saliva running down his toothbrush handle every day and decided it was all too much to bear. Plus he left his whiskers in the sink.”
“Ewww.”
We sit in silence and digest this for a moment.
“So then they got a divorce?”
“She kicked him out of the ensuite. He built himself a bathroom of his own in the basement.”
“So now she has a bathroom all to herself?”
“You got it.” Bibienne stares ahead into traffic. I know what she’s thinking. Get out the blueprints and floor plans. There’s got to be a way to get a bathroom of one’s own.
I jump out of bed at 5:30 and run out to the driveway to catch Donald, before he has a chance to get out the door to work. I have an urgent face-to-face request.
It rained last night. Donald is gingerly picking up orange peels and a mess of soggy newspapers that are strewn all across the front lawn. Looks like a neighborhood dog—most likely our very own neighborhood dog, George—raided the garbage cans again last night. Before Donald put the garbage out I texted him to suggest he wait until morning as all too often we wake up to a mess. He ignored me.
I struggle to keep from snorting and rolling my eyes to the sky, where fat drops of rain drain down from a mountain of grey clouds.
Donald glares at me. “What do you want?”
“I want to spend the weekend at Mom’s house. Alone. I need to catch up on my courses. I’m behind.”
Nestled in my purse are the keys to my mother’s house. She asked me to check on the house and water the plants while she’s off pretending to be Julia Roberts. Donald’s eyes shift over to land on Jasper who is sniffing at George’s bottom as he poops out a large brown mound on the grass beside me.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take the dogs with me. Serenity said she’d help out here.”
The benefit of Serenity’s helping hand doesn’t add much to my case but I’m grasping here. And, of course, there’s the unspoken part: with me gone, Donald can’t stay over in the city tonight.
“Do whatever you want.” Donald turns away and bends down to pick up an onion bag.
Mom’s bed is magical, all pillow topped and feathered and fluffed. How does she ever get up in the morning? The house is a wonderland of silence: no sounds of Jack and Olympia quarrelling, Donald yelling at them to pipe down, and Serenity and Shae attempting to drown everyone out with what sounds like a test-punk-rap-fist-fusion meltdown. The setting is ideal for studying, and I certainly intend toget cracking on that right away … right after I borrow one of Mom’s terry cloth
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