The Park Avenue Hovel, page eight

    Ten years ago, or fifteen, or five, or even six months ago, she had thought that people didn't just wake up and not love each other anymore. It wasn't possible, she thought, to simply not love someone: it had to slip away or drain out somehow, giving notice before it left. She had thought that right up until one morning, twelve weeks ago, when it had happened. Now, listening to faint music filtered through two walls and the plumbing stack, she couldn't identify where or how it had gone, and certainly had no way to follow it down and get it back.
    She didn't hate him. She filled out another form, signing her married name at the bottom, and took some comfort in that. She didn't love him anymore, indeed, could not remember what it had been like to love him; but she didn't hate him. He was a part of her life that didn't fit anymore, closer than a stranger, less than a friend. Staying together, living together, had been easy, even after she realized that he could not have loved her for some time. After she stopped trying to make substance from his indifference, they inhabited their house almost independently, each staying out of the other's way, speaking only at meal times or just before they turned out the lights to lie next to each other.
    It had been too easy, though, that quiet resigned existence. That same anxiousness which drove her to complete these tedious forms had made her demand them, pushing her out of the house and all it contained. One of the trees outside her window rattled against the house and she looked up, trying not to remember the nothing on his face when she'd told him. The cliche, throwing down of the gauntlet "I want a divorce" had come out differently; after all, there was nothing left to duel over. She'd merely mentioned it at breakfast, before he'd tied his tie or laced up his shoes, and there was no "I want." On her way to refilling her coffee mug she'd paused and said it. "We should get a divorce."
    He'd nodded, absently, as if she'd suggested repainting the kitchen. And then, as she leaned against the counter, watching, he'd stopped. He had frowned down at the morning paper, ears and brain obviously catching up with each other, and only after his brow had cleared did he look at her.
    "If that's what you think is best."

Posted at Sunday, December 6, 2009 11:35 AM
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