"See, I punted that one out of the park." "You certainly did," And you don't even know what that means. But I do. It's better to leave it alone, but I can't; It's a scab, and I'm me.
 
    "You probably should avoid sports metaphors." "What do you mean?" She's huffed up like a bitch protecting her pup. And in this instance, the pup is fervent independence; a child I've spent the last nine months nurturing. Yeah, we're on a brink; what's more, I've probably just jerked us over. Making me as culpable for the approaching abyss as I'll assure you she is. I'll even tack on one more "what's more" here; in five years people will point at me and say "It's all his fault." That doesn't help. 

    Nobody likes being called an asshole, no matter how accurate the accusation. "Punting is a football term, 'out of the park' usually refers to baseball." See? It's not a lie. And I've chosen the higher ground. I could tell her about "punting" meaning surrender and "out of the park" referring to all the power and glory she's put into it, but she'll learn; she's still young and durable. I'm not. I've taken nearly forty years of lumps, I'm not as resilient as I used to be.
 
    Fifteen years ago, this would have slipped away with a shrug. Why am I too tired to shrug anymore? I try "Go home, feed your dogs. Do whatever you do when you're not pretending to be my friend." Yeah, I'm not sure I meant that, but I am assured she'll never pretend again. Good job Josh, you've just alienated yourself from the last person who pretended to like you. It's time to go home to my wife. She stopped pretending moths ago. Pressing the remote entry button to my car, I almost hope it explodes. No such luck. Apparently I'm not even that important today. I'd like to say I was once, but no. The only person who ever found me important was myself. Enough self pity for you? Oh, please! I'm just getting started.
 
    If they could drop-ship my self pity to feed barefoot foreign waifs, I'd staunch the worlds starvation problem for eons. In the car, the leather car seat cushions my pride. I may be alone, but I have nice stuff. I wait behind the wheel for Steph to pull out. Granted, she's pretty safe in a church parking lot, but it's still night, and no matter what I say, I still care. 

    Even if--like everyone else--she's abandoning me, returning to college. Whose bright idea was that? Oh yeah, that's right: mine. But why Norway? I was talking about community college! When I said, "go out and experience life," I meant local culture. Fucking Norway? Oh hell--sorry God, church parking lot is still a bad place to demonstrate my secular vocabulary. So she's gone. 

    Her taillights don't even blink goodbye. They're a glaring scarlet accusation. She's supposed to call before she goes. She won't. I'm not important enough. That's almost a work of fiction I wrote 9 months ago. Almost. Change the names, get rid of college, Norway, and the church, oh--and drop the remaining quote after "Feed your dogs." It's what I wanted to say, but couldn't. I was too shocked by what she had just said. She had just called me unimportant. Today I'm going to introduce you to a new character in my divorce: Ingénue Séduisant. Ingénue, this is everybody; everybody, this is Ingénue. 

    Say "hi," because this is the part of the story where you'll stop reading, rend your clothes, and regret your time I've wasted. It's ok, I understand, but it wouldn't be fair to talk divorce without presenting MyWife's side of the split. That involves two major complaints. One, I'll probably go over tomorrow, the other is Ingénue Séduisant.
 
    I met Ingénue in a writing class at a local college. We became friends, hung out, and critiqued each others creations. I liked her work; it had a distinctive voice. Her prose carried a poetic meter, and her poetry danced with imagery. If her writing lacked, it missed on two beats: She needed more life experience, and she needed to decide that she wanted to write. Once these two things clicked, she'd rock. You’ve read my Waiting poem, right? She wrote one that matched it from a woman's perspective. 

    Her intent was a little different, but I blended the two voices once. The combined creation was sad, yet lyrical. The voices sang in harmony. I'd share it with you, but I don't have permission, so it'll just remain a song nobody hears. Nobody but her and I. Ingénue was one of the few people I ever considered collaborating with on projects. 

    Writers are loners, but there were ideas rebounding in my brain; ideas that begged for a feminine touch to revitalize their feminine protagonists; I had hoped Ingénue would spin the perfect spirit to resurrect them. Now is a good time to drop in a quick timeline. We met in late 04 or early 05. She was very quiet, in fact it took all I could do to get her to speak out in class; she just needed confidence. 

    Anyway, like I said, we were friends. She was really my only local friend. Working at home, I didn't have anybody close, and the end of 05 was when I talked with MyWife about feeling alone, that's also when she told me to suck it up. As a married man, there are limits to what I can do with friends of the opposite sex, and I've always tried to stay on the good side of that line. I never bought her any gifts, never saw her off campus, except the few times she came to our house while MyWife was home, and I never touched her. I did everything I could to treat her like a sister. 

    Then in early 06 I noticed something different. We'd attended a writers' conference, and hung out through most of the sessions. Sitting in stiff little hotel seats, I realized she was fun socially. I could see being with her outside of the writer's environment. That's when I knew I had a problem. I had a crush. Do you know how horrifying it is to wake up one morning and go "Holy crap! I have a crush!" It sucks. What's more, there's nothing I could do about it. I wasn't going to drop the class. It was my sole writing and social outlet. Could I get her kicked out? No, being a loner I didn't have any clout. I could dwell on it, but then I'd risk discovering that it was more than a crush. 

    Oh lord...What would I do then? No way! I took those feelings, locked them in a box and said, "Nice to know you. Have a great day!" Slam! Clink-Clink. If only it were that easy. But every class, every visitation by Ingénue, brought a rapping on the box. "Ro-ob….Oh Ro-ob. I'm still in here. Open up, lets talk. Maybe we can play some catch or Twister. What about some platonic spin the bottle?" "GO AWAY!" "I can't, you've locked me in this box.         

    Maybe if you open it I could go somewhere else…" "AHHHH!" The hardest part about the whole crush thing was not understanding it. I mean, here was a girl whose favorite band was Our Lady Peace, and she didn't even know who Rush was. How could I be attracted to a knuckle dragging cave dweller? There was another thing I didn't understand about the crush:        

     Why? In all the time I have known MyWife, I have never had a crush on another woman, not even while we were dating. She was the only one I thought about, and now thoughts of somebody else sat locked in a box under my bed, screaming to be noticed. It freaked me out. In retrospect, I overreacted because it had never happened before. Retrospect doesn't mean jack.
 
    I began trying even harder to keep things together with MyWife. We took trips, spent more time together. If I could think of it, I tried it. I had no intention of cheating on her, no matter what the Rob in the box suggested, Ingénue's lips were solely for speaking. Strangely, MyWife didn't seem to notice. That didn't help the loneliness issues. Still Ingénue and I didn't see each other outside of class; We kept to routine, and routine only met once a week.
 
    Last July, Ingénue and I met at a Barnes and Nobel book signing. The writer was a mutual friend, I wasn't even sure she was coming. The signing was good, but what I remember most was wandering the store later. That night we talked and laughed at the pictures on Nicole Jordan covers. "I think that guy's more interested in you than me!" she said, pointing out this oiled up Brokeback blond boy. His lower torso sat wrapped in a sheet, only tan thighs peeked through the wrinkled linen. "I think you're right!" I started reading the back cover in a Texas drawl. Why? Because Barnes and Nobel has a Starbucks, and I'd had more than my share of caffeine. I slip into accents when I'm nervous. 

    That's when she told me she might be moving to Alaska. "Alaska?" "Yeah, I need to get out of here." She planned on flying out, scouting the job market and making a decision after she returned. I didn't hear from her until a few weeks after she got back. We ran into each other on campus and she didn't even say "Hi." For some reason, she stopped speaking to me. I found out from a few other people that she'd come back from Alaska and left deposit on an apartment. She was moving there within a month. 

    It was weird. The contrast was a Florida thunderstorm: fine and sunny a moment ago, and now everything is soaked and ruined. It was like the girl I knew before the flight, never returned. The one who came back, only to move away, wouldn't talk to me at all. She wouldn't even tell me she was leaving. Had my friend died in a plane crash, leaving an out of work Bionic Woman Fembot to take her place? 

    Yes, I know, in any other circumstance, this would be a man's fantasy come true. In my circumstance: it sucked. A few weeks passed, and still nothing. Then, one night, I caught up with her on the way to the parking lot. "Hey, hold up!" I ran up to her, "I hear you're moving." "Yeah." She kept walking without looking back. "So when you leaving?" "Movers pick up my stuff in two weeks," She pulled her keys from her purse and reached for the door. "I fly out the weekend after that." "Wow! That quick huh? So you've got a good job lined up?" "No, I don't have anything yet. I'll just find something once I get there."
 
    I started focusing my questions. What had she prepared, what was she going to do about..? I didn't think the move was a smart idea, but I've done the flight into the abyss a few times. I thought it could be good experience for her. I have to admit, on one hand, I was relieved. I didn't have to worry about her being a temptation anymore, but on the other hand, my friend was moving away.
 
    My friend who wasn't speaking to me. I still didn't know why she wasn't talking to me. Why? I'm a guy who likes answers. Remember Princess Bride? Remember when the Dread Pirate and Indigo are dueling? Indigo is asking all these questions and Wesley says, "Get used to disappointment." That's me, and yeah…I'm getting pretty used to it. I continued asking questions, looking for ways to help. That's when she put her hands on her hips looked me in the eye and said, "Look, the people I care about have asked me everything I need to worry about. You are unimportant to me." I covered my face from the blast, leaving my heart bear the brunt. I didn't see that coming. I said something else, I don't remember what, but decided it was best to leave before I said something nasty.
 
    That's when the sports metaphor made an appearance, and that was the last time we spoke. I thought it just might be the pressure of moving, and I tried to let it go. I attempted calling her and emailing her, but she never replied. I wrote that we should get together before she left, but heard nothing. I took it hard. I couldn't believe she wouldn't take five minutes to knock on my door and say good bye. I'm normally a good judge of character, and this threw my people gyroscope all out of whack.

    It also made things worse between MyWife and I. I was going through this complex web of self-doubt, loss, and countless strands of "Why?" Not to mention I was still confused by the whole crush thing. I didn't hide any of it from her though. I told MyWife everything. I swear, she seemed disappointed that I didn't have an affair. That doesn’t mean she wasn't still upset. This was a big issue. And I completely understand her anger. I really do. 

    I mean look back over this post. How many times did I mention her? It's possible she felt equally slighted in real life. I won't even use the excuse that that's how I felt, because it's not fair. This is about her, and she felt hurt. But I didn't do anything. Ingénue and I didn't even have a song! I didn't kiss the girl, or treat her like anything more than a sister, no matter what I felt. 

    But for MyWife, what I felt was the deal-breaker, and she can't forgive that. I don’t know, I could see getting mad as hell. I could see not talking to me for a while, I could even see her sewing me in a sheet and beating me with a rock, but I can't see this as a divorceable offence. Still, this is the straw that split the camel in half. Amazing straw. 

    She told me once, "with all your flaws, at least your faithful." Later, after this she tells me "I could ignore everything else, until you were unfaithful." I never did anything with Ingénue, how is that unfaithful? Then there's the "Everything else," She won't let me see that list; she hides it behind acts of pseudo-infidelity, buried in broken camel flesh. 

    That was last August. Last weekend, when we were drinking, MyWife brought up Ingénue from the past. We were talking about the reasons for the divorce and what we said to outsiders. MyWife said that when she talked with her friends about me, all she told them was that I was a "truly caring, funny, and very intelligent man." That's when MyWife said something odd (Like that wasn't weird enough. She had been drinking though….). She said "When Ingénue said you were unimportant to her, she lied. She thought you were very important."
 
    I don't know what that means All I know is I was a married man. I thought I had a friend, I thought I had a wife, and now I find out I was wrong about both. I don't say these things because I want you to feel sorry for me. I've done what I've done, and yet I feel like I've done nothing and lost everything. I emailed Ingenue the other drunk-night, after MyWife made her cryptic comment. I think I was looking for an answer to the non-friendship that brought about the end of my non-marriage; I really wasn't surprised by the non-reply. I'm not important enough.