I am unmarried.

I feel marred.

I am happy to close that chapter.

I feel guilty.

I am torn.

I feel out of control.



The tears surprise me.




I had a wonderful day, really. Brenda accompanied me to the courtroom at my request. Dad was to be my escort, but I knew the stakes...I knew things would be said, that tensions would braid in thick plaits, binding us within the room for always. I wanted no bitterness.

It was all very matter-of-fact. It was over before I realized...in less time than it took to complete a marriage ceremony, we were divorced. Brenda and I returned home...I noted that as soon as we exited the courthouse, I actually felt hunger. I haven't been hungry in so long.

I had a hair appointment at 2:00. I wanted to pamper myself at the salon, but after sinking moola into new brakes, I reasoned that a salon date would be financially irresponsible. My dear aunts purchased a $100 gift certificate for me to make sure I had my opportunity. I was grateful.

I donned my swimming suit and lay in the sun for just shy of an hour. I am not a tanner, but I do love the heat. Hot is good. It was bliss, nestled on my Downy, home-scented towel in amongst the blades of grass. I set the scheduler on my phone to let me know when to ready for my appointment.

I also scheduled a shot at my clinic. I was banking that my hair wouldn't take too terribly long and I'd still be able to make it to my clinic by 4:30. I told them that I would be by sometime after 3:00. It was close. My salon receipt is time-stamped 4:12. I took the back way to Waunakee, shamefully tickling 80mph at times, and seemed a little harried as I gave my name and reason for my presence. On the white board at home, I had scribbled for my to do list:

Divorced? (check)
Styled? (check)
Poked? (check)

I dropped trou and let the nurse train the new girl how to know where to insert the needle. Perhaps it was from my time as Mom's nurse—or my brothel-stays in North Carolina—but I don't seem to have the typical hangups in exposing myself. It makes date-scouting go a whole lot smoother.

Finally catching my breath, I shuffled rudely to my car in the parking lot, and chanced fate in my determination to turn left during rush hour. I rang Nick's doorbell...when no answer came, I used my key to let myself in. "Nick?" I called softly, knowing he felt unwell. I poked my head into the garage and determined by it's vacancy that the lord of the manor was not present.

I went to the deck and sat on the wooden steps...my breath catching at the stillness. I'd been so careful to keep myself busy today, I was not expecting the empty time to reflect. Reflection is bad for people like me—people who don't sleep...people who never stop thinking. I bet surveys would show a spike in the incidence of suicide attempts among my kind...we're noxious unto ourselves.

I felt the tears sliding from my cheeks, noticed their baby-puddles on the steps...I didn't realize I was crying until I felt the tears. It was then that I heard the knock on the door, and saw Nick standing with the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers. He is so very kind to me...so very kind. The card read, "Here is to finishing what you didn't start...but I'm thankful you did. I love you." It was foreign, scary, that moment. I've finally found the appropriate name to scribble on its name card: moving forward.