(no subject)
A reworking of an earlier poem, for my sister. This is just so that I have a record of it.
Also, why am I so obsessed with divorce? It's been years now and I keep thinking about it, writing about it. How can I be so obsessed with something I haven't even come close enough to as to become capable of.
...
Their argument ended abruptly, words, formed hard and cold, paused in mid-flight halfway across the table. Words crashed down, shattering on a glass and plopping in soup unceremoniously, drawing somehow more attention than all the boisterous vulgarities that had led up to this moment. Someone had cheated, this was clear, and someone else had cheated, also clear, which meant that they had both cheated, if our math was correct, but someone had cheated first; this was the rub. And now, as a timid and trembling ceasefire stood between them, waiting to be cut down at the knees, their faces grew serene. Not the serenity of serendipity, nor even the serenity of a deep understanding, just the serenity of companionship, both of them knowing that they were in the presence of someone who had felt the same pangs of humiliation and guilt that they were drenched in. They passed a few minutes in silence, not looking at each other but not looking specifically away. The man asked the waiter to bring his wife more tea; the woman passed the pepper, and so it went for a time. They were civil, courteous and almost kind. There was nothing left of their relationship, at least that we could see from two tables back, but they had made peace with that fact. As they stood to leave, the woman having asked the man if he'd prefer she pay with her card (it having cash back for meals) and the man telling her that he was a few sky miles short of his next business trip getting complimented to him, he took her coat from the back of her chair and placed it on her shoulders. She did not put her arms into the sleeves, but it was not cold out in particular, and he took the flesh of her elbow in his hand as they walked out. There was tenderness, even though it looked like familiarity, the way I kiss my grandmother on the head, not the way you place a hand inside your lover's. They walked away, and in their wake we sat, surveying the wreckage strewn out along their path, the marriage soon to be ended, possessions cut in half, lives separated, but it didn't feel like chaos, and I was thankful for that. I wished I could have caught up with them and told them how much it meant to me, that little reminder of the possibility of civility in war.
Also, why am I so obsessed with divorce? It's been years now and I keep thinking about it, writing about it. How can I be so obsessed with something I haven't even come close enough to as to become capable of.
...
Their argument ended abruptly, words, formed hard and cold, paused in mid-flight halfway across the table. Words crashed down, shattering on a glass and plopping in soup unceremoniously, drawing somehow more attention than all the boisterous vulgarities that had led up to this moment. Someone had cheated, this was clear, and someone else had cheated, also clear, which meant that they had both cheated, if our math was correct, but someone had cheated first; this was the rub. And now, as a timid and trembling ceasefire stood between them, waiting to be cut down at the knees, their faces grew serene. Not the serenity of serendipity, nor even the serenity of a deep understanding, just the serenity of companionship, both of them knowing that they were in the presence of someone who had felt the same pangs of humiliation and guilt that they were drenched in. They passed a few minutes in silence, not looking at each other but not looking specifically away. The man asked the waiter to bring his wife more tea; the woman passed the pepper, and so it went for a time. They were civil, courteous and almost kind. There was nothing left of their relationship, at least that we could see from two tables back, but they had made peace with that fact. As they stood to leave, the woman having asked the man if he'd prefer she pay with her card (it having cash back for meals) and the man telling her that he was a few sky miles short of his next business trip getting complimented to him, he took her coat from the back of her chair and placed it on her shoulders. She did not put her arms into the sleeves, but it was not cold out in particular, and he took the flesh of her elbow in his hand as they walked out. There was tenderness, even though it looked like familiarity, the way I kiss my grandmother on the head, not the way you place a hand inside your lover's. They walked away, and in their wake we sat, surveying the wreckage strewn out along their path, the marriage soon to be ended, possessions cut in half, lives separated, but it didn't feel like chaos, and I was thankful for that. I wished I could have caught up with them and told them how much it meant to me, that little reminder of the possibility of civility in war.