Chapter 3
The waitress came back. I ordered toast I didn't want because I needed to do something with my mouth that wasn't talking. Julian ordered black coffee. The chrome napkin holder between us reflected the window and my gray blazer and his dark suit in a warped band.
"You said you'd sign," I said, after she left. The diner radio played low classic rock under the clack of plates.
"I said I'd think," he said. "Elise, we did this in City Hall in nine minutes. You wore that same blazer."
I had. White V-neck, same heels, hair in the same low bun because I'd come from work. It stung that he remembered. The toast arrived. I didn't touch it.
My phone buzzed. My lawyer, Marcy, with a one-line email: Received your draft. Need his executed copy to file. NY 30-day waiting from filing. No signature = no filing.
I turned the phone so he could read it. He read it and pushed it back.
"So I'm still your husband for a month even if I sign today," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"And if you don't sign, longer."
He added sugar he didn't stir. "I chased the bus because you told me by text. 'Gate 6.' Like I was a pickup."
"I told you where I'd be because I didn't want you to chase me," I said. "I wanted you to know I left. Those are different things."
He looked down at the sweat drying on his collar. "I know why you pulled the suitcase. You wanted a clean break before the new job starts."
"Temp job," I corrected. "Data entry. Midtown. Starts Thursday."
The job was the only solid thing I had after we decided to end the contract. We'd married two years ago so he could stay for his engineering transfer. Papers, then separate bedrooms, then an agreement to keep it quiet until his green card interview passed. No lie about love, just a contract that got heavier every month until love tried to grow in the wrong place and failed. I signed because I was tired of checking a box that said married when I felt alone.
Julian finally met my eyes. "I'll sign," he said. "But not at a bus door with your wheels half on. Let me get it notarized. Let me bring it to Marcy with you. Tuesday?"
I thought about saying no, about pulling the handle up and finding the next bus. I thought about the apartment with no towels yet and the check I'd written that would bounce if I didn't start Thursday. Practical things that keep a person in a city.
"Tuesday," I said. "Ten a.m. Her office on Lex. You bring your copy. I bring mine."
He nodded. Relief moved through his shoulders. It wasn't romance. It was the first time since the shelter we'd spoken without a bus waiting to take one of us away.
I slid out of the booth first, fed two dollars under my water glass, and pulled my suitcase toward the door. The wheels caught the diner mat and smoothed. Outside, the sun had moved enough that the shelter's shadow fell longer, Gate 6 quiet, the street doing its normal loud New York thing. I had missed the bus but not the day.
"You want help with that to the subway?" he asked from behind me, not touching the handle this time.
May you like
"No," I said. "I've got it."
I walked to the corner alone, suitcase rolling steady, and didn't look back to see if he watched. I knew he'd wait until I turned.
