text: “Claire and Patrick are getting a divorce,” Marge said, over the sound of the weatherman’s predictions for the day. “What was that?” her husband, Ron, answered. “I said Claire and Patrick are getting divorced. Apparently, they’ve been sleeping in separate rooms for years.” “Oh dear,” Ron said, “Would you like cream or sugar in your tea?” “Just some sugar. But can you imagine? Married for thirty years and throwing in the towel? I mean, Patrick was far from perfect, but Claire had her own fair share of nut-so moments over the years too.” Her husband mhm-ed from the kitchen, measuring out the sugar with his surgeon’s precision. “I wonder what made them decide to give up,” Marge mused, shifting her large bottom in the chair so she was facing Ron directly, “The kids have been gone for years. It’s not like either of them are eligible anymore. Don’t you think comfort is worth staying in a marriage for?” Ron turned, carefully walking the tea over to the table. “Perhaps they wanted to find their true shot at love?” he said, before turning back to the kitchen to fix his own coffee. Marge’s blood chilled. “But what’s love got to do with it?” she scoffed, ignoring the cold pit in her chest, “It takes a lot more than love to make marriage work. You can have oodles of love and still end up sleeping alone.” “Perhaps they were tired of staying for comfort,” Ron guessed, setting his mug slowly onto the kitchen table, and then sitting with agonizing slowness. He and Marge had both slowed much over the years. Marge remembered when they first married, and Ron would dance her around the kitchen each night while she tried to cook dinner, both laughing until tears streamed down their faces. After the kids had been born, the dancing had slowly faded away. Dinner couldn’t be burned, and it couldn’t be late. A lot of things had faded as the years passed. Marge’s beauty for one. “Do you think it’s because Patrick didn’t find her pretty anymore? Claire was always such a darling thing, but the chemo left her different after all.” Ron pursed his lips, “You said they hadn’t shared a bed for years. It sounds like a deeper problem than chemo.” Marge sipped her tea, then cussed when she scorched her tongue. Her impatience had always been her downfall - but when had she started calling it impatience rather than eagerness? “I do suppose a lot of things can build up over the years,” Marge said once her tongue had cooled, “But still, the timing seems odd.” Ron shrugged, sipping his coffee. Was he a little distant today? Their mornings had seemed less talkative recently. And he seemed more eager to finish the shopping than he used to. To get out of the house... “Maybe there was someone else,” the pit in Marge’s stomach widened, “Maybe Patrick, or Claire, had already found someone else to be with and that’s why they abandoned the other.” “I would hardly call an amicable divorce abandonment,” Ron said, his eyes now on the television, the pretty young news anchor talking about the recent shooting in Illinois. Marge glanced at the thermostat, wondering why the kitchen suddenly raised goosebumps on her forearms. Was a window open? Did Ron turn down the heat again? “So you agree that if there was someone else, it’s okay for Patrick to leave as long as Claire is okay with it?” Marge asked, sweat beading at the collar of her shirt. Ron shrugged noncommittally. “They are both adults, are they not?” Marge’s heart fluttered, and her chest tightened. When was the last time she and Ron had gone to bed together? Always one of them had something to finish. Often Ron wished to read the new medical journals before bed, and did so in his study so the light didn’t bother her. But what if? What if he wasn’t reading the medical journal in his study? “Still,” Marge said, sipping her now cooler tea again, “Thirty years of marriage abandoned for nothing. You and I aren’t far off from that.” “No, it’ll be what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven next fall?” “Twenty-eight, September 8th,” Marge supplied quietly. “Ah yes,” Ron reclined slightly, eyes still focused on the pretty news anchor, “Twenty-eight. It seems like yesterday I met you at the barbershop.” Marge blushed, remembering how she’d met Ron, young and dashing, as she swept the floors in her uncle’s shop. “We’ve both changed so much since then,” Ron mused, “I barely even recognize myself in the mirror these days. And you as well - three healthy children takes its toll.” The kitchen seemed to drop another degree, and Marge busied herself with straightening the place mat in front of her, the daisy pattern entirely her own choice. She barely asked Ron’s opinion on anything these days - she assumed if he wasn’t happy with the décor - with anything - he would have told her. But what if she was wrong? “How is your sister doing?” she asked off-handedly, “Her divorce was finalized not too long ago.” “Ah, Izzy is great. She’s got a new beau and seems very happy. I’m very glad she got a second chance,” Ron smiled, but still didn’t quite glance away from the TV. “Yes,” Marge said, beginning to pick at her nails now, “Second chances are good to have, if needed... I’ve never been fond of needing them, myself. Much rather make the right choice the first time.” “Yes, well, a lot of choices seem like the right choice at the time.” Marge flushed, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the kitchen sink. Her hair was dyed a faded rust color now, wiry and short as many women her age wore it. Her skin, once youthful and sun-kissed, had folded in on itself, marked with liver spots and crows feet. It sagged slightly over the collar of her shirt, and she knew she sagged a lot more when she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror before hopping in the shower. She wondered if Ron looked at how much time had changed her. She was impatient, grouchy when things changed. She had always thought of him as mellowing her out, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had told him that. She couldn’t remember the last time they had sat down to have a real conversation without the TV playing noise in the background, and Ron usually not looking at her. Maybe he didn’t want to look at her. Maybe he did see the changes time had made, and decided he didn’t like them. Maybe they were only a short step away from separate beds, and then separate lives entirely. Marge swayed as the earth fell away beneath her, and she weakly said, “I don’t want a divorce.” Ron looked at her, holding her gaze intently. “I don’t want a divorce either. What makes you say that?” Marge coughed, the kitchen now hot enough to make her upper lip sweat. Had she imagined it? The distance stretching between them? Had it simply been what she used to think? A comfort of two people who knew every inch of the other, and not an ominous warning of a piece of paper declaring their marriage void? Embarrassed, Marge glanced at the TV, and sipped her tea, though it was still too hot on her tongue, “Shame about that shooting, ain’t it.” Ron let it drop - maybe he was glad to let it drop, never much of a gossip himself - and nodded solemnly, “Yes, mighty shame it is.”