I couldn’t sleep. A full glass of whiskey didn’t cure the insomnia. I went to Crosby Street and watched the loft window for signs of life, but even at eight in the morning, four hours into my vigil from the coffee shop, I saw no sign she was even there. I asked the doorman if he’d seen her and he hadn’t.

I was supposed to be letting go. Signing the divorce papers had done nothing to quell the anxiety that screamed wrong wrong wrong.

I went back to the coffee shop and ordered another. I just wanted to see if she was all right. That was what I told myself. But by nine thirty, I knew she wasn’t coming home. I went back to Murray Hill to get ready for work.

So much for being free. So much for the breadth of choices. So much for giving up on her. Maybe I was tired, and in the exhaustion, I fell back into old patterns. I was married. She was mine. My wife. My lover. My sub.

Even though I felt the truth, I knew another truth. Equally accurate yet diametrically opposed.

She was less mine than she’d ever been.

When I got out of the shower, I took off my ring and put it in the medicine cabinet. My hand didn’t feel any lighter. The skin at the base of my finger was pressed smooth and shiny. Even after I rubbed it, an indent remained. Even in winter, the bottom of my finger was a lighter color than the rest, as if the metal was gone but the ghost of the marriage remained.

I got dressed. I didn’t have the energy for formality, so I put on jeans and a sweater. Then I decided that maybe today was the first day of a new life, so I put on a charcoal-grey suit that was narrower in the shoulders. Back when I dressed for Diana, I’d avoided it. It was time to stop caring what she liked. It was time to be alone with my preferences.

Single Windsor knot.

Shit.

Wrong shirt for that. It looked dinky with the wide collar, and the wide collar wasn’t right with the jacket.

Double Windsor or change the shirt?

Jesus Christ, asshole. Get it together.

The doorman buzzed the intercom.

“Yeah,” I said into it, pulling off the tie.

“Good morning, Mr. Steinbeck. I sent a guy up with a package.”

“Thanks.”

I made coffee. Fuck the suit. Fuck the whole thing. Let it all unravel. Maybe I’d just go to Tahiti for a year and wear nothing but cut-off jeans and puka shells. I could learn to surf. Sit in the sun and tan this white ring off my finger. Let it burn this pain out of my chest. Maybe I could throw away this damaged soul and grow another. One that worked right.

When the bell rang, I went to the door. I signed for a small package, not looking at it until I’d tipped the delivery guy and closed the door.

Mrs. Steinbeck - Congratulations! Your silent auction prize is enclosed. Thank you again for supporting the Literacy Project.

I’d forgotten she’d bid on something at the event. What had it been? Who even knew? I dropped it on the front table. I could send it to her. Or I’d deliver it personally. I could ask her how she was doing. See if she was with Zack. Ask if that meant she was going vanilla. Pretend I was all right with whatever she said. Look right into her eyes and see if she was lying when she said she was fine. Maybe I’d see Zack at McNeill-Barnes and commit murder. Get myself arrested before noon.

Talk about a new life.

As I finished getting ready, going back to sweater and jeans, I decided using the package as an excuse to see her wasn’t in line with starting fresh without her.

Having used my entire store of willpower in the decision to send the package rather than deliver it, I was powerless against my desire to see what was inside the box. Maybe she was sending me a message. Hope could be in the bottom of that box. I opened it. A certificate lay on top.

Dinner for two at Le Bernardin. I knew the place. Sauces swiped across white plates like impressionist pigment and cooked scallops placed back in the shell. Lighting so dim the menus came with little gold-plated flashlights. Nice. Great. She’d probably take Zack. Maybe her father, but if she was sleeping with that weasely little motherfucker, she’d have every reason to take him.

I didn’t have to deliver it at all. Then she couldn’t take Zack out to a six-hundred-dollar, pre-fuck dinner.

Maybe she hadn’t won this thing. She had no way of knowing, and I wasn’t made of stone. The money would go to the charity whether she went out for dinner or not.

I was being an asshole. I was being petty and immature. I was jealous. Ravenously jealous.

I folded the voucher to remove it from the box. I was throwing it out. I only had so much patience for this shit, and it had just run out.

If she wanted to go back to vanilla and it had just been me she didn’t want vanilla sex with, I would let her have that.

I hated it.

The thought ate at me.

I had no choice.

Like a bell from a heavenly host, my phone dinged. It had buzzed and dinged all day long. I didn’t stare at it or answer it when I was doing something else, but this time, I looked at it.

Hello,

Sorry for the mass email. This is going out to all contacts.

As some of you know, two days ago, Lloyd Barnes passed away from complications associated with emphysema. He was a fearless leader and a shining light. We will miss him.

The wake will be at Costa Bros. Funeral Home. Address and viewing schedule are enclosed.

Thank you so much for your constant support.

~Kayti McTeague

PS: Business at Mc-Neill Barnes Publishing will continue on Monday. Please forward all inquiries to this email.