Clean Break

"We need to talk," Joshua said, sitting by the breakfast table. His belly pressed against it. It hadn't done that when we married. We need to talk. I didn't even look his way, my back was turned and my focus was on the coffee pot. "About what, honey?" A stray lock of my hair untangled from the curler. I had stopped trying to look good years ago. I thought we were at that point where appearances no longer mattered. The man had seen me split open when delivering our children, he already knew the worst of it. But he had, teary-eyed, exclaimed that I had never been more beautiful than when strung out and torn apart. A lovely and a sinister statement. I had told my sister Anette about this, and she told me to just take the compliment.

"We should stop kidding ourselves, right? We're done."

And just like that, my world erupted.

I am not proud to say this, but I begged. Pleaded, even. Prostrated myself before his altar. Nothing helped. He had simply tired of me, of my stray curls, of my off-key singing when cooking, my victory dance when I won at cards. He was probably just speaking his truth, no malice intended, but I still wish he had just said "it's not you, it's me".

The house was packed up. A few hours to remove a lifetime. I tried not to cry when I looked at my garden, where I'd never while away another summer. My threshhold, where Joshua had carried me across on our first day as homeowners. The leaking tap in the bathroom, which had first been an annoyance and now a soothing rythm as you went to sleep. When no one saw, I etched my name into a doorframe. I couldn't stand the thought of being entirely eradicated from my home.

I moved into the city, a studio apartment. Where Joshua went, I have no idea. Our kids are adults, we don't need to stay in touch anymore. A clean break, and I was stuck in the middle. I did my best to make the apartment homey, but all my trinkets suddenly looked frumpy on the sleek shelves. You're too old for this, the walls said. Downtown is no place for middle-aged women with too-tight girdles and comfortable shoes. It was always bright, always noisy. I twisted and turned on the sofa, my new bed, to the symphony of honking cars and shouting teens. Wasn't it past their bedtime? Outside my window, a brilliant sign advertised a plastic surgeon, who had made his office right next to my complex. The slim, happy woman on the sign shed as much light on my doughy body as the sign itself did.

A girl lived next door, I saw her in the staircase sometimes. Stella, the sign on her door said. She looked about twenty, this was probably her first home away from home. I would have been terrified, but she looked stony and determined everytime I saw her. At night, she played music as loudly as she could. I never asked her to turn it down, despite it keeping me up. In some strange way, I liked hearing it. It made me young, by some odd proxy. I could pretend it was my music, that I was the cool maybe-teenager on my own in the big city. That all clothes looked good on me because I was skinny, and I was brave enough to cut bangs.

And then, she knocked on my door.

"Hey," she said when I opened. "I got your mail."

"Oh, thank you," I said and took the envelope. My alimony check. I had stopped working after getting pregnant and my job had been to raise children. Stella lit a cigarette, even though you're not allowed to smoke indoors here. "I like your plushies," she said, having apparently shamelessly looked behind me at my furnishings. I felt myself flush. "They're just-"

"I meant it. No need to justify it."

The plushies were actually my kids' old lovies. I couldn't bear to throw them away. Stella nodded towards my mail. "Divorced?"

"Recently."

"Sucks. My folks, too. You got kids?"

"Two boys. Andrew and Simon."

"That's cool. I'm an only child. Soo..."? She looked at me as if she wanted to know my name.

"Rachel," I said.

"So, Rachel, are you gonna invite me in?"

I shifted my weight. "Aren't you being a bit nosy?"

"Do cigarettes cause cancer? Wait, hang on." She turned on her heel and popped back into her apartment, only to return with a bottle of cheap wine. "I can pay the entry fee. Come on, you look like you need a good hangover."

And so, for some reason, I ended up being semi-drunk with a teenager. She was nineteen, she told me. Worked until she could afford to leave her parents and never looked back. I admired her. Who had the strength, the conviction to do that, and so young? Her eyes were harshly lined with black, in a way that reminded me more of war paint than makeup. Her hair was obviously cut by her, but she made it look effortless. Her sharp bangs framed her head like a helmet, despite the baby fat still on her cheeks. I wanted to worship her and adopt her at the same time.

"What a dickwad," she said after I told her about Joshua. The smoke from her fifth cigarette curled towards the ceiling. I had taken one too,despite not being a smoker.

"He had his good sides," I said, cringing a little at her crudity.

"Bullshit. All good sides are, like, immediately negated if you pull shit like that."

"Well... I suppose," I conceded, not wishing to fight.

"Good riddance to him. Now you can go on the prowl, find someone who's actually good for you. Treats you right, and all that."

"Hey now, I don't think I'm ready to date. We were married for decades!"

"So? You're not getting any younger."

My cheeks stung. She didn't seem to notice. Instead she crossed her legs, putting her combat boots on my sofa. "That's a bit rude," I said, meekly.

"It's also true." She filled my glass with more wine. "I know! You should come clubbing with me."

"What?"

"It'll be great. I'll do your makeup, you can dress all sexy, get some guys to buy you drinks..."

"Hang on now, Stella! You said it yourself, I'm way too old for things like that!"

"Never said that. I said you're not getting any younger."

She looked at me, that determined gaze I recognized from the stairs. There was no arguing with her, I realized. Maybe it was the wine talking, maybe I was just thankful for a friend who had listened, but...

"Okay," I said.