Superstitious

The divorce papers have come through. The signature's on them, ink dry, a door closing as another one opens. I'll try to be positive. I'm afraid, but aren't I also liberated? Haven't I just been given a pair of wings – maybe without the instruction manual, but what the hell...

It's the last time we'll be meeting here. You. Your lawyer. My lawyer. Just the last few details to iron out. I find I don't want to, but I do look at you. I'm not sure what I'm trying to see, maybe just wanting to understand what brought me here. Why you?

You give me a smile that's a sneer: “Melody.”

“Brad.”

My lawyer gives me a soft, sympathetic look. Maybe she's been married to an asshole in her time as well.

You know I tried. Through all the bad times.

You come home drunk, I help you up to bed, tuck you in, get you a glass of water. In the morning when you wake up and you're hungover and miserable I try to sympathise, I don't bother stating the obvious: how right it serves you.

And I know that you'd take money out of my purse to go out on the town with your guys, I watch you lie to my face about that. What's yours is mine, and still, you stand there, poker-faced, like you don't know what I was talking about.

I knew about you and Lydia Trescrim. I was heartbroken, but I forgave you. It's not the great betrayals like that one: it's the little things. The times you didn't meet me when you said you would, or when I'd ask you to do something - “sure, no worries” - and you just never got round to it, changed your mind, got distracted. Little put-downs; tiny disappointments. Those are what really kills it in the end.

The worst is these moments, looking at you, seeing that cold, condescending expression on your face. Your last look at me, and there's no remembering the good times, nothing sad or tender or regretful. This is when it occurs to me at last: you don't care, never did.

I look at you, and I think to myself: how many cracks did I step on to end up marrying you?