"We need to talk" read his text. My stomach turned. Two days before, on our 13th wedding anniversary, I had gone to our marriage counseling session by myself. You'd think I would have known then.
I was too busy to respond. My friend pulled my hair into a beehive, stuffed it with some kind of nylon filled with toilet paper, wrapped my hair around it, and then Aqua-netted the shit out of it. It was Halloween and I hadn't dressed up in years. In the last few months I had become obsessed with Amy Winehouse. Whenever I felt unhappy, I would watch the YouTube video of a concert where she randomly punches a fan in the face. It always made me feel better. I had made the decision to dress up that day, but was entirely unprepared. Given that I rarely dried my hair, much less styled it, I had no idea how to do the high beehive that was Amy Winehouse's signature. I called my only friend who would know what to do. She not only put my hair up, but applied thick black eyeliner, and bought me cheap door knocker earrings from the little salon around the corner. I would change into a black tank top at home. The hair would have to carry the show.
"Go out tonight, no matter what." she told me. "You look great!"
"On my way," I texted him, flew out of work, hailed a cab, hitting my beehive against the top. My heart pounded. Was this the end? Was it a new beginning? I didn't know.
You'd think I would have known the week before, at our third counseling session. The therapist responded to something I said, referring to our session as marital counseling. My husband was shocked. He was only there to address an incident that had happened with my family that led us to seek counseling. He had no interest in marital counseling and refused to schedule another session. Now I was shocked. I insisted on scheduling the next appointment. He berated me through the walk to the bus stop and on the M15 bus. Eventually, he got off, and walked the rest of the way home without me. You'd think I would have known then.
My body already knew. Three weeks earlier, I woke up, inhaled, and then couldn't take another breath. I panted, ran around the apartment flapping my arms, "can't....breathe..." I managed to gasp. Then because it was, after all, the very first thing in the morning, I got out " have....to.....pee." In a poignant moment that happens with couples who have been together a long time, even those on the edge, he held my hands as I sat on the toilet, peeing. I relaxed. I breathed again. He looked at me. We went on with our morning. In complete denial to my body's alarm system, I made a doctor's appointment. For the next week and a half, maybe two weeks, I woke up the same way, gasping for breath with no idea why.
I bounded up the six flights of stairs in our small Manhattan one bedroom apartment. I found him alone, sitting in the dark. He turned and looked me, surprised by my eyeliner, my beehive, my earrings. He told me he wanted to move out by December 1.
Somehow, dressed as Amy Winehouse, I could scan my real self for my feelings. I felt nothing to fight for. I had no arguments for why we should stay together. I knew. It was over. "Go ahead" I told him. Then I went out.