Diary of a divorce

April 15, 1999. Two weeks into our separation, I'm startled and bemused to be living on my own. I walk very slowly and very carefully from room to room, as if I am afraid I might break something. I treat my body like a fine piece of expensive porcelain. I lower myself in and out of the bath very quietly and avoid looking in the mirror at all costs. I decline invitations from friends and co-workers because it feels important to get home as soon as possible. So I can shut the door, kick off my shoes and be assailed by loss. Listen, I know I cannot pace these ruins for the rest of my life, but for now I am oddly content to sit by the cold ashes and dream old dreams.

One week before you left, you aggressively turned to me in bed, your hands gripping my hair, your legs pinning my legs. I don't ever remember feeling so aroused. You bit my ears, pinched my breasts and entered me so forcefully, I cut my lip on my teeth. You whispered over and over, "I'm close to you now, aren't I?" We made love the way strangers make love, no strings, no history, no recriminations. You descended down upon me like a dark cloud, all limbs, all muscle, all desire. Like Zeus descending down upon Leda. All those strained silences at the dinner table, in bed, over the phone, were forgotten, transformed, melted down to pure gold. And every second you were inside me, and every time you thrust yourself deeper into me, and every time I cried out in pain and in pleasure, I knew this was the last time I would ever hold you. And it made me smile, because I thought, "This is the way the world should end, messy, sexy, a tangle of sweaty limbs, raw nerves, a bleeding lip, abraded skin."

In truth, that therapist was never going to do anything for us. Not in her prim and tasteful office, with her chignon, her beige suits, her pumps, her gold earrings. She should've said, "Go home and fuck like rabbits. Ten years is a good run. Fuck like crazy and go your separate ways. These things happen. Sometimes a world crumples, sometimes a marriage ends and sometimes it's the same thing." Wouldn't that have been a relief? Then we wouldn't have wasted all that energy pretending everything was going to be OK. It was never going to be OK. The tag was on the toe and the body was cold.

When we finished making love that night, I felt so exhilarated. I wanted to shout from every roof: "My marriage is over and my husband just fucked me! He didn't make love to me, he fucked me. Making love is so domesticated, so pure, so classy. Who wants that? Nobody wants that. Fucking is what we want." I didn't say that. I didn't say anything. I just lay there in your arms, out of breath, not moving, trying to make the moment last and last, at least until the sun rose. But I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up and the bed was empty. I got up and saw you sitting in the living room, the lights from the street illuminating your pensive and quiet face. I wished I had gone to you and said, "It's all right, darling. It really is. Sometimes the world crumples, sometimes a marriage ends and sometimes it's the same thing."

Postscript

May 16, 1999. The sunset today was a sublime mist of yellow and rose light. The days are longer now of course, and I have become a connoisseur, of sorts, of sunsets. Tonight as I walked west, I was positively transfixed. I track the time in my journals; I think it's a way of reassuring myself that I still exist. Listen, I made love to a man who was not you tonight. And it was like child's play, a romp. I have been dating him for a month now. He is not at all like you. He is tall and bald and speaks with a thick accent. It is strange to be coveted by another man; it is very strange. He lives in a large loft covered in theater posters and antique furniture with oddly no place to sit. After dinner, he pulled me down to him and kissed me full on the lips. My tongue reached out, tentatively at first, and explored his teeth and his lips.

He's been single for 20 years and I have been single for six weeks, so we are not evenly matched. He laughed broadly when I told him I did not know how to pull a condom over his grinning, fat erection. He said, "You're how old?" So it was very playful and very comic, and it meant absolutely nothing, and I was anxious to go home when it was over. Shouldn't sex always be fraught with something? Shouldn't it signal the beginning of something, the end of something? Shouldn't it be infused with love, with hate, with passion? And the answer I learned tonight is, no. I am surprised to learn this, not happy, not sad, just surprised. I am surprised to find that sex can be just a game.

He said I had to get on top because I wasn't working hard enough. So I got on top. Then he said, "Stroke my balls." So I stroked his balls. I turned this way, I turned that way. It was athletic and invigorating, and sexy and engaging. Afterward he said, "God, that was great," and got up and made coffee. I told him next week was my birthday and he said, "I don't know how old you are, and I don't care." I laughed and laughed because I would never have any history with him. No past, no present and certainly no future. I have been on a total of four dates with him in noisy restaurants and couldn't even begin to spell his last name. While I was fucking him, I didn't know where to look. It seemed impolite to close my eyes, but I certainly didn't want to look into his.

Despite his protestations, I left after coffee because I wanted to call you. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary, 11 years. I'll never forget how we drove to the church in your Volkswagen bus, smoking a joint while I gave you a hand job. And later, in our hotel room, two doors down from your parents, we took a shower together, our matching pink underwear strewn like rose petals on the bathroom floor. In the shower, I knelt down in front of you, and you wiggled your hips so that your cock flipped back and forth, gently slapping me in the face, the hot water pouring down our lovely, young bodies. Eleven years later, we have stumbled into a strange land where love is elusive, sex is a game and spectacular sunsets ease the pain in my heart, just long enough to allow me to go on.

Part 3: Dating is sexual warfare.

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