"Just take a car home. I'll be back later."
Then she hung up. Fast.
I lowered my phone and sank into the sofa in the hotel lobby, staring at the elevator display frozen on the number eight.
The last flicker of light inside me dimmed.
Faded.
Went out completely.
The lobby was quiet. A piano piece drifted from the speakers, something I didn't recognize. The melody was flat and unhurried, like it was being played by someone who felt nothing at all.
I thought of our wedding day, suddenly and without warning.
The officiant had asked: Marjorie Swanson, do you take Edmund Dickerson to be your lawfully wedded husband?
She'd said, I do.
She'd been looking at me then, and her eyes had light in them.
I believed she meant it in that moment.
I also believed she meant it now, with Rufus.
But a heart is only so big. Fill it with one person, and there's no room left for another.
I sat there for I don't know how long.
Then I took out my phone and sent a message.
Marjorie Swanson.
I want a divorce.
