Divorce II
The Waitress
Word Count 881
I was “The Waitress.” My soon-to-be ex-husband and I laughed at this. But the woman he now loved, whom he was thinking of marrying, the one who had given me this moniker was not joking. How, she wanted to know, had he ever sunk to such depths as to marry a waitress? And, why hadn’t he divorced me? When he told me this, we laughed even harder. We always had the same sense of humour: we saw the absurd in most things. Nevertheless, the marriage had not worked. We both had the same trigger temper, exploding at petty cops or cab drivers who refused to drive us into Brooklyn, which was considered the wilds of New York in those days. Still, the marriage failed.
We Were Married?
Word Count 1789
Eighteen years after our divorce, Duna started getting lost. He knew nearly every crossroad in Alabama from his work organizing farmer’s markets and, later, as a lawyer representing teachers in school board hearings. Now he couldn’t find his way home.
Duna was a rare breed—a white, progressive good-old boy from the rural South. He was legendary among local activists for his keen take on southern politics, outrageous storytelling, penchant for calling bull*#t, and signature dance mix of Appalachian clogging and the boogaloo.
At 5’8’, Duna was only an inch taller than me, and slight. When we met in 1978, he wore tortoiseshell glasses, khaki slacks, black work boots, and a smile so friendly, it made you want to sing. He joked about city girls, making me laugh despite myself, something he was always able to do.
Before the Fall
Word Count 458
The runway wasn’t longer than half a mile, and we didn’t even see it until the plane was skimming the very green treetops. We were traveling from Barbados to Mustique in a caravan of very tiny prop planes. My husband, myself, and three of my children were in the first, my oldest son and my best friend, who was also my stylist, along with my husband’s trainer, sat in the second, and in the third were my husband’s two adult children and his assistant.
I was very, very rich. This alone provided me with an exceedingly false sense of well-being. I had far too much money to spend, let alone die, on this tiny obsidian airstrip, overgrown with bougainvillea and frangipani and palm trees.
Driving Under the Influence
Word Count 896
“Mom, we’ve been drinking too much. If I send an Uber for you, can you drive us home in my car?” my older son Seamus asked. I was just about to click off the TV and head to bed when my phone rang.
Why Seamus had not anticipated drinking too much at an Irish wedding was not for me to harp on, though it was my first thought. My husband Jimmy and I had raised both our boys with the directive that drunk driving is never an option. It was one of our directives they actually seemed to hear.
“Of course,” I answered. It was close to midnight, I was already in my pajamas, and they were at Bear Mountain an hour away.
My sons and daughter-in-law were enjoying the wedding of their cousin, who had been my nephew for 23 years until I divorced Jimmy and ceased being Aunt Corinne or Sister- or Daughter-in-Law Corinne and became…Jimmy’s Ex-wife.
Sexual Revolution
Word Count 1190
Cannabis lube and three orgasms in one night.That’s what my middle-aged, post-divorce sex life looks like. It has not always been this way. Long before my hot romps with the Joes, Peters, Pedros, Fabios and Juan Miguels, I would look in the mirror and dissect myself. I didn’t trust or love my body as much as Louise Hay wanted me to. My screenwriting professors always told us to use FLASHBACKS sparingly, but to understand the history of my body image psyche, here’s the time-line.
1980s. I’m a seventeen year-old virgin spending the summer in L.A on a film internship. My roommate is a Malibu bombshell who is very in with the “LA fast track.” She’s about to attend Hugh Hefner’s Midsummer Night’s Bash and desperately wants me to come with her. There is a big caveat: I have to meet with Hugh Hefner’s private secretary, Mary O’Connor, for approval.
You’ve Been Served
Word Count 975
It’s 1978, I’m ten-years-old One day I wake up to find that life has completely changed. here’s yelling when previously there was none. Objects, like hot hair rollers, are thrown across the room. There’s a suicide attempt from the living room window I watch both my parents leave the house without saying anything and I wonder if anyone is coming back. The beginning of my parents’ divorce is the end of my childhood.
By eleven years old I’ve learned divorce is a gateway to bad shit, like men coming into my house to date my mom but really, they’re more into me. Divorce is the welcome mat to comments like, “You’re so pretty, one day men will chase you with a mattress tied to their back and a club in their hand.” Divorce is when a forty-something-year-old guy, hired to fix the bathroom shower, shoves his tongue in my unsuspecting mouth while taking advantage of my curiosity to see what he’s doing, Left alone in the house with him, I hide in the closet under the stairs holding my breath, lest he hear me because I can hear him calling my name.
It Was War
Word Count 650
Marriage is complicated. Divorce is messy. After twenty years in a relationship with a woman, after numerous therapists, couples counseling sessions, tearful and angry nights, I finally spurted out in a session that I wanted to separate.
It was as much a surprise to me as it was to my partner, as I had always been the one begging to work it out. By some force of strength summoned at just the right moment, like an uncontrollable unexpected sneeze, I declared my emancipation. The room was silent. The therapist quietly waiting, my partner in silent shock, my heart pounding, I realized that there was no turning back.
Last Pharmacy
Word Count 937
When my husband left me the first time, we were living in a small apartment on the Upper East Side with our baby.
Two years later, willing to “give it another try,” he found a huge apartment on Park Avenue for a bargain price. “Maybe we’ll get along in a bigger space,” he said.
Fourteen rooms weren’t enough to save our marriage. After five years, Don announced, “I’m leaving, this just isn’t making me happy.” Those were the exact same words he used when he walked out the first time.
I thought there was probably someone else. One night, sitting in a taxi on the way to my mother’s house, I glanced up at the building his assistant lived in and saw him standing in the kitchen holding a wine glass.
Car Talk
Word Count 634
My husband and I are alone inside our car, silent. Rain is bouncing off the roof like buckshot. A navy-gray sky shrouds summer’s twilight as wipers swoosh furiously; no squeaking or sticking to the windshield tonight.
He pulls into the garage, hits the button. A steel door traps us inside. We look straight ahead at the overflowing shelves, ones he cut, hammered and hung to keep our family’s toys and tools orderly. One of them is the site where a raccoon holed up for two days while he tried to coax it down before entrapping it, transporting it to the wildlife sanctuary.
I don’t know how to begin this ending. But, he’ll take the lead, break the silence. I know he will.