quickly (all three - pointers) . As I worked the gas and brake pedals, my left leg bounced as if I were ready to run a race.
That’s more like it.
I was further buoyed by the thought of having the house to myself for at least this week, maybe more. I could return at the end of each day confident in relaxing. No battles to wage, no eggshells to skip over. Who knows, perhaps a bit of time apart might be the best medicine. Not even counting the financial implications, I could only imagine that the process of a divorce is a colossal waste of energy and time.
I cruised onto the exit ramp near our neighborhood. I considered stopping off to pick up some food but really didn’t want to do anything but park the car and take that shower. I was sure I’d find a box of something in the freezer. Worst case: call out for pizza.
I thought of Suze again. Doing the math, there are certainly more points in the win column than the sum of all the collective rough spots from our marriage. I remember just a year after meeting her, Suze had to go away for a couple weeks. Not sure where, really. Couldn’t have been her job, because back then she was with Norris Publishing. Proofreading textbooks. Gave a guy like me quite an advantage in the early days of our relationship. It’s surprisingly easy to be witty and exciting at night when your young girlfriend spends the day proofreading junior - high - level social studies textbooks. Looking back, I think she was traveling for a family thing. Not a wedding, though. No way she’d go to a wedding alone. She would have taken me — even if we’d only been on a single date — to save herself from being alone with her relatives. I’m thinking it was probably a funeral.
Anyway, I recall a conversation shortly after I’d picked her up at the airport. As we sat in the car waiting to pay the parking garage attendant, I turned to her and said: “It’s weird. Had a busy week. At the end of every day, it felt strange not telling you about what happened. It’s gotten so that when I do or see something, it doesn’t become real until I tell you about it.”
That made her cry. A happy cry.
Strangely, I still kind of feel that way, perhaps more so. But it’s not something I’d tell her. And I don’t make her cry anymore. Not in that way, anyway.
Up ahead, I saw the entrance to our subdivision. I was already beginning to relax and plan which bottle of wine I’d open. As I rounded the bend to approach our house, I looked at it and saw the same thing I’ve seen hundreds of times, meanwhile feeling the relief of a long car ride coming to completion.
Except something wasn’t right.
I pumped the brakes and looked again. When I saw it, I was filled with dread and apprehension. At the very least, I knew a hot shower and tall glass of wine both just faded a bit from my mind.
The front door was open and ajar.
The best theory — at least the one that made me the most comfortable — is pretty realistic. In fact, had I not just experienced the events of the last week, it’s exactly where I’d find the explanation: Suze, who comes and goes with alarming frequency during the day (gym and back, store and back, coffee with Patty/Sue/Tamra/Lynda, or some combination of those four and back…) she never bothers to pull her car into the garage until the last loop of the day. From the drive, it was easier to use the front door rather than the utility room door that exited into the garage. And upon hearing about Peter, she made a mad rush to gather her things and hop in the car (with, I’m sure, at least four or five hectic trips back into the house to grab something — her phone, her keys, a shoe, who knows?) before she’d have pulled out of the driveway. And with all likelihood, the last trip had been so hurried and harried that she didn’t bring the door to a complete close. A light draft pushed it open sometime after she left, and voila.
Like I said, that was a theory.
I brought the car to a stop
That’s more like it.
I was further buoyed by the thought of having the house to myself for at least this week, maybe more. I could return at the end of each day confident in relaxing. No battles to wage, no eggshells to skip over. Who knows, perhaps a bit of time apart might be the best medicine. Not even counting the financial implications, I could only imagine that the process of a divorce is a colossal waste of energy and time.
I cruised onto the exit ramp near our neighborhood. I considered stopping off to pick up some food but really didn’t want to do anything but park the car and take that shower. I was sure I’d find a box of something in the freezer. Worst case: call out for pizza.
I thought of Suze again. Doing the math, there are certainly more points in the win column than the sum of all the collective rough spots from our marriage. I remember just a year after meeting her, Suze had to go away for a couple weeks. Not sure where, really. Couldn’t have been her job, because back then she was with Norris Publishing. Proofreading textbooks. Gave a guy like me quite an advantage in the early days of our relationship. It’s surprisingly easy to be witty and exciting at night when your young girlfriend spends the day proofreading junior - high - level social studies textbooks. Looking back, I think she was traveling for a family thing. Not a wedding, though. No way she’d go to a wedding alone. She would have taken me — even if we’d only been on a single date — to save herself from being alone with her relatives. I’m thinking it was probably a funeral.
Anyway, I recall a conversation shortly after I’d picked her up at the airport. As we sat in the car waiting to pay the parking garage attendant, I turned to her and said: “It’s weird. Had a busy week. At the end of every day, it felt strange not telling you about what happened. It’s gotten so that when I do or see something, it doesn’t become real until I tell you about it.”
That made her cry. A happy cry.
Strangely, I still kind of feel that way, perhaps more so. But it’s not something I’d tell her. And I don’t make her cry anymore. Not in that way, anyway.
Up ahead, I saw the entrance to our subdivision. I was already beginning to relax and plan which bottle of wine I’d open. As I rounded the bend to approach our house, I looked at it and saw the same thing I’ve seen hundreds of times, meanwhile feeling the relief of a long car ride coming to completion.
Except something wasn’t right.
I pumped the brakes and looked again. When I saw it, I was filled with dread and apprehension. At the very least, I knew a hot shower and tall glass of wine both just faded a bit from my mind.
The front door was open and ajar.
The best theory — at least the one that made me the most comfortable — is pretty realistic. In fact, had I not just experienced the events of the last week, it’s exactly where I’d find the explanation: Suze, who comes and goes with alarming frequency during the day (gym and back, store and back, coffee with Patty/Sue/Tamra/Lynda, or some combination of those four and back…) she never bothers to pull her car into the garage until the last loop of the day. From the drive, it was easier to use the front door rather than the utility room door that exited into the garage. And upon hearing about Peter, she made a mad rush to gather her things and hop in the car (with, I’m sure, at least four or five hectic trips back into the house to grab something — her phone, her keys, a shoe, who knows?) before she’d have pulled out of the driveway. And with all likelihood, the last trip had been so hurried and harried that she didn’t bring the door to a complete close. A light draft pushed it open sometime after she left, and voila.
Like I said, that was a theory.
I brought the car to a stop
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