DIVORCE
My Job as a Divorced Dude
A dive bar isn’t complete without the slumped shape in the corner. He’s talking to himself, head down as though the worn formica holds all the answers. Tonight, I am that shape — doing my job.
My drink, a tequila and soda with lime, is in a pint glass, so it lasts longer. The low-sugar drink is hydrating, and soda refills are free. I need to drink but don’t want to be drunk. If I happen to stagger away, at least I can tell myself it was an accident. I bounce between thoughts and muttered words, sometimes not knowing if I’m speaking or thinking. Or maybe I’m just in a bad dream.
I’m sorry, kids. I tried. I really tried with your mom. I’m sorry for the yelling. I’m sorry for poisoning the house with our shit for so long.
“It’s OK, Chin. Making the decision was the hard part. Now it’s just you. You can be your best. Be the best Dad you can be without the daily frustrations.”
I imagine my kids sleeping in their rooms, curled in the corners of their mattresses. Though only miles from this seat, they are a world away. I wonder if the front door is locked, see the light peaking through the curtains in the living room, and the winding brick path leading to the basement preschool I worked so hard on.
