I know what I know. I know what I’ll turn into.

My marriage will end on a Tuesday. It will be raining. I will be running some inconsequential errand, like picking up lemons, getting gas or going to the bank.

My mobile will ring. I’ll hear the most familiar voice I know on the other end but he will sound unfamiliar.

 

“Katie,” he’ll say timidly, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

 

I’ll think he’s going to yammer on about our pipes, or our tulips or some other facet of our middle class existence. I’ll be half listening. I’ll be smelling lemons for their freshness or playing with some credit card machine.

 

Then he’ll say, “I’ve met someone else. She’s your Pilates instructor.”

 

I’ll say, “Janice? That skinny white bitch? She doesn’t look like she’s very good in bed!”

 

He’ll say, “Well she’s not, because that’s not what this is about, Katie.”

 

I’ll say, “Is this about the fact that I’m a stripper? That I accidentally killed our dog? That I’ve twice been convicted of stalking other men?”

 

He’ll say, “No, Katie, none of those things had any impact on our marriage. But it’s been two weeks, and our agreement was that I’d only have to be married to you for two weeks. To get the feds off your back, don’t you remember?”

 

And I’ll say, “Oh, yeah. Maybe you and me and Janice should go out for drinks or sumthin’.”