I wonder what will become of me when I don’t have a divorce to mine for material.
I admit, it has gotten old–this maudlin end-of-marriage schtick; just as any other genre becomes. Like a reader slogging through a writer’s worn-out plot device or a theatre-goer tolerating a malingering second act, the writer in me is ready–very ready–for this thing to wind down.
But questions remain.
- Whose fault was it?
- Was he/she faithful?
- Why did he take all the staplers and umbrellas?
- Was his family really that peculiar?
- Did she really make him wear his wedding band until she moved back to Manhattan?
Marriage is a peculiar beast; perhaps an unnatural one. Two lives cobbled together and either they knit like bone, or they simply don’t take. And either one can try to hold them together with pins, or one can give up. Cut the thing off and walk around with a stump until one finds a suitable prosthesis. All the while, feeling the pins and pains and itches of a phantom limb.