Today, instead of looking at the how to stay married books in the library, up there in the 360 to 380-range (were there marriage books in Dewey’s day?), I got a divorce book. Not just any divorce book but one with a hopelessly positive title: The Good Divorce. As if. I put it in my hot pink Labyrinth Books bag, along with a Bearenstein Bears book (loathe those bears, but we all have our guilty pleasures, including 7-year olds), an enormous, 10-lb Star Wars tome (ditto 5-year olds), a few improbably paired movies — Baron Von Munchhausen and Pokemon. Because of the nine dollars in fines that I have on my card as a result of my husband (ooh, the word, the word I won’t have to say much longer…or will I? do we ever fully shed that word?) not returning movies when I was out of town, despite notes and reminders, I couldn’t use the self-check out. Instead, I had to plunk the big, dirty, ugly grown-up book on the counter with all of the picture books and Pokemon. It seemed so unjust. I was sullying the bears. I was sullying Darth Vadar for christ’s sale. I might as well have been checking out some erotica, at least that would lead to pleasure.

An hour later, glass of wine in hand while cooking sauteed greens in garlic, anchovies with pasta and parmesan:

“How was tae kwon do?”

“Thomas was sulky. How was your afternoon?”

“I went to Reiki. It was wonderful. Then I went to the library and got books. I got a divorce book.”

[Do I detect a bit of a smile at this? A smile of sorrow? A smile of disbelief? A ballsy, eat shit smile? I can't tell.]

“Oh. I guess I should get a divorce book, too.”

“You can read mine”

… Obviously, dear reader, we have not begun the separation of books yet.