The afternoon we signed the papers, winter's grit blew through the streets and scratched at my eyes. I was crying when I arrived. Except, for once, I wasn't. The notary's office was near Côte Vertu Metro station, a strange, remote place to officially end our relationship in a city that belonged to neither of us. I was uncharacteristically stoic and emotionless. He looked broken and frail.
My mind just couldn't work it out. About a month after we finally stopped seeing each other, painful shingles emerged on the base of my left thumb. I finally began to understand that my body would tell me if it was right, my body would tell me to slow down, to rest. The day before we got married I sneezed all day until my diaphragm ached. I had to lay in a dark room to shield my eyes from the light. When our alarm sounded the morning of our wedding day, I couldn't get out of bed. My body held me to the floor but I drug myself along.
"But I'm doing what I always do!" I kept thinking. "Jump then ask questions later!" He promised to take care of me. Isn't that all I needed? Isn't this love? Breaking up sucks but when you get married, you have to ask for the law to officiate the end making what is already a long, painful realization into a solid failure. I mean, that's how it felt to me when I'd actually let myself feel it.
Maybe it was appropriate in the end, two practical strangers who met in a strange city, moved to other strange cities, and ended it all officially in a strange office, estranged.