When you make it together for fourteen years in a relationship that our society says isn’t legitimate, it should end with a celebration. Instead, ours ended with simple signatures on legal documents. Closing this chapter of my life so that I could freely move on to the next one did bring a bit of relief, but it was far from a happy moment. We shared very good times together and the finality of our signatures underscored that it was truly over. Done.
We were both getting what we wanted, relatively. We met in the conference room at his office, and signed all the paperwork. Most of the major details had been worked out, but there were still a few loose ends that still need to be cleaned up. And given that we hadn’t really reached a stalemate during any part of this process over the past two years, there was no reason to believe any details would fall through.
He got the condo and I got the car, as well as my freedom. Without a legal mailing address, I had half my clothes at the condo – my winter wardrobe, and a few other items. The loose ends were minor, like leaving your jacket at a friend’s house one night while watching the Miss America Pageant and you just have to schedule a time where you can retrieve it.
He handed me the car key. He still had to sign the mortgage papers.
“That’s all you need from me, right?” I stuffed the copies of my paperwork into my bag.
“That’s it,” he said.
I stated to get up.
“Oh, the condo keys,” he said, “could you just leave them with the doorman?”
It felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. I knew I would have to give him the keys at some point. But keys were a big deal to us. In our life together, we gave keys to friends who we trusted to come sweeping in at a moment’s notice to do things like feed the cat in a crisis, or if we were stuck in traffic, they could get the vodka chilling on ice before we arrived. And now, even with half of my wardrobe still there, a dog we have cared over for fourteen years, and boxes of stuff that I needed a place, he was asking me for the keys. I had figured when I had those details worked out, I would volunteer the keys to him, suggesting he leave my name on the emergency contact form with the doorman.
If I were the crazy lunatic ex-boyfriend who left boiling rabbits on the stovetop, I might understand, but I’m not. Since moving to the lesbian pad, my arrival was always announced. And when I came to get something I needed, I always cleared it with him first. I felt that all we had left was respect, and if I didn’t at least honor that, we’d be throwing chafing dishes at each other.
“Okay. They’ll be with the doorman.”
It took everything I had to hold it together until I could get out of the building—the building for the job that my professional network helped him get. I practically ran to the street, where I lost it. Walking to the condo to get the car, the finality of our separation and the depth of its sadness hit me like a city bus squashing a bicyclist.
I walked to the condo to get the car, unable to hold back the ugly cry, making it one heck of an ugly walk.
I am alone now, I thought. I don’t even have a mailing address. All I have is a car.
I walked past the Paralegal’s building. Alone, I walked the route we took to discover gin martinis. I walked by myself down the sidewalk where the Lawyer and I plastered “You Are Beautiful” stickers on street signs and overpasses. The stickers were still there, staring me in the face. Permanent mementos to the bliss we once had.
