Alas, alas

After twenty two years of marriage, it ends. My husband and I wept with wine over the irreparable. Not even our therapist, who has been something of a priest, a shaman, a guide to us in these difficult past 5 years could keep his composure. I began with the obvious, we simply weren't attracted to each other anymore.



Like clockwork, my therapist (Joe, 49) told us to try something different and rediscover the "spark" that first exploded our love. Without hesitation I swore to him that nothing could ever capture the heat of our first fucking, and with that I fired him. His suggestion might have made sense to a normal couple, but not to us. Not to Trevor and I.



Sometimes it feels like I never met Trevor, even during intimate moments with him. When the banality of life truly hits sometimes you forget how to laugh, and if you manage to remember, it isn't your laugh, it's a reenactment of what you felt before the schedule of your life began to dictate everything. Drop off the kids, go to career, have lunch with Linda, back to career, plan out a dinner that includes basil, oregano, and wild card crème fraîche, pick the children up, prepare dinner, exfoliate, then sleep. This pattern over the course of years dulled my mind. Trevor had his own brand, and at night, after intimacy, I would stare into his eyes and hope I felt something. Alas, alas. I knew I wouldn't. I never did.



Trevor, sadly, does not feel as pessimistic about the relationship as I do. We are civil, though his attempts to remind me of our lost love with pained glances and oddly timed pauses in conversation were abhorrent and made telling the children of the divorce more difficult than it had to be.



Lacy (7) and William (11), our darling children. If I live now, I live only for them. Lacy, bless her heart, cried even before I managed to explain that Joe and I were getting a divorce. William understood; his old soul recognized long ago the tell-tale signs of a weakening marriage. His maturity astounds me, and he is a truly wise boy. I could learn a lot from him.



Of course Trevor is caring for the children, and I indulge myself in poetry and wine, candles and hard to pronounce finger foods, and even the occasional art book to put on the coffee table in my new apartment. The children have been over a couple of times and always seem dreadfully bored.



Looking forward to the Opera tonight.