“Hope is the thing with feathers.”
I like to cope with adversity by the means of hysterical humour. The blacker, the better, which goes both for coffee and for fun. I have been plotting to separate from my husband for years. At first I thought it was my duty to stay because that much I promised by the act of marriage. Then I discovered that guilt was overestimated and that I might not even have to live in eternal abjection when I divorce. It appears it is no more fashionable to pin the scarlet letter D to a divorcee’s chest to be worn until she dies in poverty and obscurity and gets what she deserves.
My soon-to-be-divorced husband is a moderately nice person, however, he may get aggressively angry when irritated. He is as unpredictable as poor dear me on PMS – which is a lot. I feared how he might react when I break the less than delightful news, and I anticipated he wouldn’t be too pleased. This is a severe understatement. At the beginning I was planning to pack my personal belongings while the husband leaves for work and have them moved before he returns. It would be very considerate of the neighbours because they love drama. I would also plant a hidden camera in the house and make the abandoned husband’s video viral.
Why, yes, I am a mean person, which is why I’m divorcing. Now listen to this. My scheme was blasted when I left one early morning under a mediocre pretext and inadvisably didn’t return until the next day. I texted the husband in the evening that I was staying overnight. I added ambiguously that we would have the big talk the next day. He texted back “OK”, very anticlimactically, and inquired where I was. I didn’t feel like getting into details and ignored the text. Crucify me now. Though I’d prefer being burnt at the stake because I like heat.
The next day I returned to a house which looked perfectly normal. The lock at the front door wasn’t changed and I could let myself in. There were no threatening notes left on my table and my books and clothes were undestroyed. Shocked by the lack of shock, I retired to the bathroom and ran a bath. As I was musing immersed in the steaming water, the husband returned from work early and attempted to storm the bathroom. I was locked in. I screamed, “Help!!” Joke. I shouted back, “Just a minute!” On which I bravely left the safe room and made me some coffee, while the enemy was sitting expectantly in the pretty red armchair that I picked with much trouble five years ago.
“You want to talk now?” I hissed unpleasantly because I’m an evil serpent. The answer was affirmative. “Well, there’s not much to talk about, really,” I said dismissively, “I decided I was moving out.” My victim burst into a mildly terrifying fit of hysterical laughter. “WFT?” I retorted. “WFT?” he retorted, choking with mirth. He didn’t see it coming and had a question or two. Or twenty. But before I even settled down to sip my coffee, he disappeared in the bathroom, crying. Well, that escalated quickly. Of course, I’m an emotionless person who doesn’t quite get all this sentimental stuff. I repaired to my corner of the home office and went on to surf real estate sites.
I expected for the husband to get over his initial disappointment shortly and start premeditating my murder, which would be more like him. Over the next few days, he was crying, sulking and looking devastated. It’s not like I’m divorcing him. Wait, I am actually divorcing him. Since then he had returned to his usual meanish demeanour. He still has occasional moments of weakness, such as when he proposed a modest but sensible divorce settlement. He hasn’t called off his promises so far. It could be really a distraction tactic, though, while he is realy plotting to put me down. Yet, I can’t help feeling inadvisably cheerful and hopeful about my undertaking.