Yesterday, at the beginning of what I assumed was a routine marriage counseling session, Kate handed me divorce papers and a folder filled with everything I needed to do in the next few days to extricate myself from her life, as well as a letter in which she asked me not to contact her again, and then she walked away, leaving me with two-and-a-half days to clear out the condo so she can move into it without me while she stayed with friends. To say this was a surprise is an understatement. When I went into that session, I was fully prepared to brag about how well I thought things were going. 

So, yeah, I had no clue this was going to happen. Actually, that’s not true. I had several clues, like the way she asked me how to do the things that are typically my job to do in the house—like medicating the cats. I asked her why, and she gave me some nice answers that didn’t include impending divorce. So, I thought, don’t be ridiculous. Kate would never dump you in secret like that. She trusts you. She would talk to you. Evidently not because here I am, kicked out of my home, away from my best friend of fourteen years, having my cats snatched from me, being forced to quit my job and live with my parents. 

The fact is, Kate and I have been living separate lives for a while now. She has work, work-related travel, CrossFit, being an organizational member of three pagan groups, and close friends she loves to spend time with. I write a lot of novels and work every weekend. We only ever saw each other a few hours a week. But I honestly thought this would just be a chapter in our story (the one in which we find personal enrichment apart and then come back together). 

I’m not going to contest anything. Financially she’s always held us up, and otherwise, she had long ago made up her mind to systematically eliminate me from her life, so there’s no changing her opinion. 

I’ll be spending my last days in my home doing the things I need to so to start a new life, packing up, and spending time with the cats, especially Andrew, whose last days I’d always assumed I’d be here for. 

I’m angry, hurt, confused, and overwhelmed. We’ll see how I do as the days go on. 

On my birthday, I woke up and biked eight miles to a cafe a few towns over that I love. I ordered a latte and some chocolate cake, because it’s my birthday and I want cake. I get my latte and my cake, settle into a table, and get to work updating my journal.  

That’s when the guy shows up. He’s an older man, mid-fifties, in sandals and socks, and he is fascinated by my pens. I can’t blame him. They’re a set of twenty-five felt tip pens that run the spectrum from shades of brown and green to shades of red and orange (including black and gray). The man likes office supplies, and so do I, so we bond over that. He concludes by handing me a card and telling me he owns and operates a “Global cannabis business.” Then he goes to the restroom, which is right behind me.  

I put his card in my bag and go back to journaling. 

A few minutes later he sits down at my table and asks me what my passions are. I tell him. He asks what the thing I’d like to accomplish the most is (getting a lot of people to read my writing). He says, “You and your wife should come by my place this weekend. We’ll talk. I could get you those readers.” I say thanks. He tells me about the three Cs of his life: Christ, Cannabis, and Capitalism. But especially cannabis. And he tells me why. Eventually he leaves.  

I didn’t go to his place. I wonder if I’m going to see him again at that cafe. I wonder if he’ll remember me. He’ll definitely remember my pens. 

One of the biggest rules at work is that the managers don’t want to see any phones on the sales floor. No problem, I just shut mine down and drop it in my pocket. And that’s worked out for me just fine. 

Except for that one time I didn’t turn it off. 

And so, in the middle of a transaction and in a long line at the cash register, the sound of a dog barking, i.e. my ringtone, came bursting out of my pants. I tried to ignore it. 

My customer raised her head like a cat hearing a can opener and asked, “Did you hear that?” 

And the phone kept barking, because the caller wasn’t going to accept me not picking up. 

“It sounds like a dog,” she said.  

I couldn’t switch it off, nor could I turn it off afterward, because “No phones on the floor.” So I spent the rest of the day in fear that this person would call back.  

But I never left my phone on again. 

Disclaimer: I take my job seriously and treat my customers with the utmost respect. That said … 

A woman today came up to me at the cash register and told me she was looking for the “old-fashioned tabs.” I asked her exactly what kind of tabs she was looking for, she said “the old-fashioned tabs.” I asked her what she was planning on using them for, and she said, “organizing.” I asked her where in the store she purchased them before, and she said, “I don’t remember. Just that they were the old-fashioned tabs.” I asked her what specifically she was looking for, and she said impatiently, “The Old. Fashioned. Tabs.”  

Meanwhile, the line behind her grew.  

Ordinarily in this situation I would go to a computer and search for what the item might be based on a general description. But “old-fashioned tabs” wasn’t giving me much to go on (I even typed in “old-fashioned tabs” just to see if it was a brand name I was unaware of. I’ve been surprised by that kind of thing before.).  

Meanwhile the line behind her grew. 

So I tapped a bunch of buttons on the keyboard at random and said to her with great disappointment, “Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t carry those anymore.” 

“That’s okay, I didn’t think you did,” she replied, clearly satisfied with the exchange. 

The rest of the day was a bit more normal.