Walking Home

In the twelfth year of my marriage something got lost. My husband Roger and I had a fight. It's futile to repeat what was said. Cruel, ugly words spilled out on both sides. My psyche felt like it had stayed out in the sun too long, defaced by blistered, oozing sores. Our bed, once an island oasis, was now as wide as the Gulf of Mexico, and each night I slept fitfully robed in grey flannel. We moved through our days in studied politeness. Emotionally abandoned and betrayed, for the first time I danced with the specter of divorce.

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