You should get a divorce, I say to Michael and he says to me. The… - I Do Words

You should get a divorce, I say to Michael and he says to me. The patio’s sunny and warm, we wave away the balloon-twister and the panhandler who follows. Pub food, he’s good with pub food.

You’re paying all the bills, three mortgages, I say, all the utilities, money for the housekeeping, and she doesn’t want you there? She’ll divorce you as soon as you date someone else--well, does she want to be a wife or not?

He says it kills him living in a flat, stepping into a corridor from his front door is too much like hotels on the road. He’s barely keeping his head above water, takes a lot of CD sales to keep up two households in three houses.

The first-day waitress, overly chatty, overly made up, takes our orders.

You’re in another relationship, he says, you live apart, you’re friends, you have a new relationship to your ex-husband. It’s OK to let go of the old one, you’re not going to lose him.

I say it kills me to admit failure, to let go, to raise the white flag instead of going down with the ship, like the song that filled me with determination and despair in equal measure.

Yes, we both say, you’re right, you’re giving me the advice I can’t give myself.

His ring has been on a chain around his neck for ten days. My ring has lived in my iPod case for five years.

Our orders come, both incorrect, neither of us wanting to send them back, it’s fine, please go away. Please bring a side of gravy and another water and go away.

He tells me about a couple he knew who got divorced, stood by a lake and spoke words to give each other back to God. The story leaves me weeping, the waitress interrupts with the dessert menu.

I tell him the example he’s setting for his children is not, “I tried my best,” but, “use yourself up for someone who doesn’t want you any more.”

He tells me, you have three weeks. Three weeks to raise the subject.

I tell him, you have a year, I’m putting it in my calendar.

We shake on it, we both weep, the waitress interrupts, we laugh through our tears at her youth, her obliviousness. Perhaps she, too, will try for 13 or 25 years, perhaps she will commit grave crimes against her marriage and still try to go home, still knock and knock while standing on the step, the door bewilderingly and firmly shut.

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Location: Esso Station on the Trans-Canada Highway between Regina and Balgonie, where five young men are having a friendly discussion consisting entirely of "fuck you" at different tones and pitches.