We were sitting there talking about life, talking about this new house she was hoping to rent, one with a nice big yard for the kids and the dogs. It was nothing special, really, just a conversation between two adults — between two people who share three children and a decade of life together.
The only twist in the whole thing was the fact that we’re not together anymore. And that the conversation was civil and mature. That may sound like a lame claim to make, but you’re not us and so you don’t really know what we were like before. Before, back when we were in the same house, always sharing the bills and the coffee and the air we were sucking into our lungs, Monica called us out on it first and she didn’t back down. She said she couldn’t go on anymore the way we were. And the way we were was pretty bad.
Now here we were, spit back out by the tornado of our separation and landed in the small side yard of the house she was renting down the valley from the one I found for myself. It’s staggering at times when I realized that we actually went through with it, that we broke up. And it’s even more staggering when I look across the yard and see her sitting there sipping her bottle of beer in the pale evening light.