Closing Credits 

Today we met. Probably for the last time before everything is final. I met the woman who had been my wife for seven years. She opened the door.
"You're not too late."
I smiled. According to my car I was 3 minutes late. It's funny because I called her an hour earlier.

"I'm going to be late. Can we push this back a half hour?"
"Uhm, OK."

I feel like I was keeping her from something, but if that were the case she'd have told me, right? We were married for 7 years. That's what you tell people you've been with that long. Even if it's, "Well the pantless plumber is coming by. He's promised to bring the pipe snake, and this will cut into his time. I can't have that."

I just thought I didn't want to keep her waiting. We're meeting at the bank. You know what's funny? I generally only call ahead for business appointments or people I don't know well.

The dentist, "Hey, I'm going to be late. Do you need to reschedule me?" My friend Mark, "Dude! sorry I'm late."
The auto shop, "Uhm, I'm running late. Is that going to be a problem?"
My parents, "I'm here, finally. Sorry."

Ok, well there was the time MyUnwife and I were 3 hours into the 6 hour drive to Dad's house. We looked to each other and asked, "Did you feed the cats?" That trip I called. I didn't want mom holding dinner. Nine hours? We'll eat before we get there, I promise.

I called MyUnwife. I pushed this meeting back a half hour. I was three minutes late.

"You're not too late."
"You know. Same old stuff."
She smiles. She knows. MyUnwife offers an anecdote from her life that fits as we step in line. We both laugh.

This is odd. That's what's running through my head, but not what I say. I can't put my finger on it, but something is off. It's not really her, and it's not really me, it's just off. I mention my vacation, she tells me she's going on one soon.

"What'cha doing? Anything?" She shrugs,
"You know. Something."
I smile and nod. I do know. I don't know what, but I do know she doesn't want to tell me. I don't feel offended. It's like if I asked the teller what she was doing when she got off work. Ok, that might be a little different. The point is: I don't need to know. I'm just a curious guy.

We get to the teller, and I ask what she's doing when she gets off work. Ok, I didn't ask that, but wouldn't that be funny? It would be surprising. We didn't do anything surprising. We fell into our usual roles. I'm the disarming guy, MyUnwife is the quiet empathic nodder. Occasionally she's say something, but she's mostly quiet. I talk enough for the both of us.

"Thanks have a nice day!" The mission is done. The teller watches us go. MyUnwife and I walk back outside. I see her car. We stand on the sidewalk. We're waiting for something. It's not just me, because she's standing with me. Waiting. I don't know what it is. Is it a hug? Is it a conclusion? We're this close to the end, maybe we're waiting for credits to roll as some 90's rock band staging a comeback sings a Diane Warren ballad to remind us to go home. Maybe it's Rob Zombie, maybe Collective Soul. Who knows? The song doesn't play.

I could hug her. I don't. I don't physically reach out to people outside. It's funny, I'm intimate with inside people. Outside people I'm all hands in pockets, and "keep your distance" banter. Outsiders don't see it that way. I'm good at hiding that. MyUnwife knows. She was an insider.

We stand.
We wait.
We're talking wind up talk.
"I need to go."
"I know me too."
It's not like we're longing for each others company.
What are we waiting for?
Finally nothing happens and we leave.

I'm driving away, feeling melancholy. I'm sad, but happy. (I know, sad but happy and melancholy. Somewhere Webster is beating his head with a big book called a…uhm...oh whatever.) I'm happy because we survived. We'll both be good, we've moved on. I'm sad because We've moved on. We've become who we're meant to be, without each other. Maybe I wanted a big red dot to say, "We were here." Now it's like my niece's dance recital: unless you were there, you wouldn't know it happened.

Today we met. I met the woman who'd been my wife for seven years.