Happy
Valentine’s Day, said the voice on the radio. She descended the stairs toward
the tableau she knew was being staged in the living room awaiting her appearance in the scene, and she was ready. She hadn’t rehearsed, hadn’t known exactly what to
expect, but she was confident she could extemporize. So many iterations of various scripts
had played out in her mind, she knew she would rise to the occasion.
She entered the living room and saw him sitting wearily on the sofa frowning woefully, the deep grooves of his furrowed brow intentionally exaggerated. “Just look at us,” she said. “Neither one of us is happy. We really have to face the fact that we can’t go on like this. This marriage hasn’t worked for ages. Let’s agree that it’s over. We’ll both be happier apart. I’m sure we’ll get along much better and might even become friends again. One of us has to leave, and soon. If you don’t go, I will.”
That wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.
She entered the living room and saw him sitting wearily on the sofa frowning woefully, the deep grooves of his furrowed brow intentionally exaggerated. “Just look at us,” she said. “Neither one of us is happy. We really have to face the fact that we can’t go on like this. This marriage hasn’t worked for ages. Let’s agree that it’s over. We’ll both be happier apart. I’m sure we’ll get along much better and might even become friends again. One of us has to leave, and soon. If you don’t go, I will.”
That wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.
