It was a formality more than anything. The deal was done, all that was required now was a signature on one of those forms that no one ever anywhere will ever check so why bother. Sign here where the little plastic post-it arrow is.
So why the reluctance. I wanted out. She wanted out. We both wanted out out out. We were in violent agreement: Out. But as I parked my car outside the attorney’s office building, I struggled with a strong urge to peel back out into traffic, burning rubber all the way down the street.
I just didn’t want to do it. Sign the papers. It was way past irksome and well on the road to refusal. Because signing the papers meant all kinds of real. Not in the sense that the end was real, because I was more or less okay with that. The end wasn’t hard; it was the idea of losing the beginning and middle that was hard. The good stuff. Somehow signing this form would take that away, too.
That the refrigerator we bought together, the first one either of us had bought, so adult-like—that would become less real. It would mean that color paint we chose for the bathroom was less real, and that’s totally weird because I never liked that sort of cheery yellow bullshit color. But it was real and now it was becoming something else.
It would mean that the long, dull nights of silence towards the end meant about as much as first night in our own home—not much. All of it fading in the bright hot sun of today.
Whatever it was then, it will never be that again. And that’s just weird. It all seemed so real.
Oh well, I muttered to myself as I opened the car door and stepped out. Let’s get this done.