Travel, they said. Take a break, seek beguilement, get out and about. When I say they, I mean it only in a generic sense because I didn’t tell anyone about what had happened. And I mean it only in the sense that this was the prevailing wisdom of the time, if one can call it that; go abroad, seek out sights, find distraction.
Why didn’t I confide in someone?
I’m a private, some may even say, diffident man. Spilling the miscarried contents of my guts to office monkeys is not my style. And then there’s the thing about men of my age. We tend to have associates and colleagues but no particular friends. Not ones anyway that could be counted as close. It was also a matter of pride.
You don’t go around telling all and sundry that your wife of two and a bit years has been balling silly the guy next door and run off into the night without so much as a backward glance.
Both my parents are dead. I have a sister, Ruth, who lives across state; West Coast, California. We seldom connect apart from the odd email. I didn’t even tell her.
She has her life. And I didn’t want to sound like a loser Jew. A schlemiel, as my mother would say. There was no one else I was close enough to, to share this shit with. I had a cousin who was a buddy, but he was killed when the towers came down. Bloody Arabs.
My first reaction to the change of fortune was to find a smaller apartment some distance away from the ill-fated love nest. No one wants to come home each night
to stare at reminders of rampant sex from the angled vantage of a bedroom doorway. So I found cheaper lodgings on the lower East Side, Manhattan, three