She nodded, and braced her hands against the wall.
No one ever tells you how resilient skin is. It’s meant to be tough, which is why it takes a little leap of courage to jam a syringe through it. But it was worse for Zoe than for me, so I kept my hands from shaking (a real problem at first) and plunged the needle into the center of the bull’s-eye. I made sure there was no blood mixing into the medication, and then came the hard part. Can you imagine the force it takes to push oil into the human body? I swear, no matter how many times I did this to my wife (and I did look at it that way—as something Ididto her), I could feel every bit of resistance that her flesh and blood put up against the progesterone.
When, finally, it was done, I pulled out the needle and stuck it into the Sharps container that was next to the sink. Then I rubbed the injection site, trying to keep Zoe from getting a hard knot there. Usually, now, I’d get her a heating pad, too, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen tonight.
Zoe put everything back into her purse and pulled down her dress. “Hope we didn’t miss the bouquet toss,” she said, and she opened the bathroom door.
An elderly man in a walker was patiently waiting. He watched Zoe emerge from the men’s room, followed by me, and he winked. “I remember those days,” he mused.
Zoe and I burst out laughing. “Not unless he was a diabetic,” I said, and we walked back into the reception holding hands.
The Kent County Family Court isn’t that far from Wilmington, where Zoe and I have rented an apartment for years; but it’s a good distance from Reid’s house in Newport. Clutching the copy of the marriage certificate I got from the town hall, I walk the length of a covered portico from the parking lot into the building.
Every few steps, I hear a bird.
I stop walking, look up, and notice the speaker and the motion sensor. The courthouse has some weird nature recording following me with every step.
It’s kind of fitting, actually, to be headed in to file for divorce and to learn that something I thought was real is just smoke and mirrors.
The clerk looks up at me when I enter the office. She has curly black hair—and that’s just her mustache. “Yes?” she says. “Can I help you?”
These days, I don’t thinkanyonecan. But I take a step toward the chest-high counter. “I want a divorce.”
She flattens her mouth in a smile. “Honey, I don’t even remember our wedding.” When I don’t respond, the clerk rolls her eyes. “Just once. Just once I’d like someone to laugh. Who’s your attorney?”
“I can’t afford one.”
She hands me a packet of papers. “You own property?”
“No.”
“You got kids?”
“No,” I say, looking away.
“Then you fill out the paperwork, and bring it to the sheriff’s department down the hall.”
I thank her and take the packet out to a bench in the corridor.
In re: the Marriage of
Plaintiff:that would be me.
AndDefendant:that would be Zoe.
I carefully read the first item to be filled out: my residence. After hesitating, I put down Reid’s address. I’ve been there for two months now. Plus, the next item is Zoe’s address. I don’t want the judge to get confused and think we’re still living together and decide not to grant the divorce.
Not that it works like that, but still.
Number three: On _____, in _____ (city), _____ (country), _____ (state),the Plaintiff and Defendant married. An official copy of the marriage license is attached to this complaint for divorce.
Zoe and I had gotten married by a justice of the peace with a speech impediment. When he asked us to repeat our vows, neither of us could understand him. “We’ve written our own,” Zoe said, in a flash of inspiration, and, like me, she made them up on the spot.
On the divorce form, there are four spaces for children, and their birth dates.
I feel myself break out in a sweat.
Grounds for No-Fault:
