Divorce Kills, Except Not Really

"One divorce, please."

"With children?"

"With children." She circles an option on the menu and tells me to head to the cashier to pay for the forms. I look down at the sheet.

"Ooh, annulment - that sounds fancy. Do I qualify?"

"Did you marry your brother, sister, mother or father?"

"No."

"Were you forced into the marriage?"

"No."

"Was your spouse previously married but his partner died and then came back to life?"

"No. That definitely did not happen."

"Then you can't get an annulment."

"You know what? That's fine." I pay for my paperwork and she hands me the forms, a five-pound packet - the instructions, she tells me - accompanied by a single sheet. Husband's name. Wife's name. Sign here at the bottom. I'm a bit confused.

"Are you sure these are the instructions?" She nods.

Mem and I are in the sports bar. He's upset about the air conditioning. Too cold. It's over a hundred degrees outside, I say, enjoy the air conditioning. Here, eat the rest of this.

He tells me it's never hot enough, that he has to store the heat of today for the impending winter. Right, I say. Look at this. I hand him the giant packet of instructions. Isn't this funny?

Mem flips through the first few pages, raises his eyebrows. "You have your work cut out for you, Jen. Look at the third page."

I grab the packet from his hands. Third page, fifth page. There's at least a hundred pages here.

"Oh crap. I have to fill out all of this?"

Mem laughs, settling back into his seat, and I realize that he always looks this way, as if he's just waking from a long and pleasant dream.

"You're funny, Jen," he says. "You're very funny."

I get to the house late. Lyra wouldn't go to bed on time, probably because it's so hot, Chris says. I tell him he looks nice. Also, does he have any alcohol?

We go over the forms line by line. I read every one aloud. Property, no, thank god. You can have the bank account. No alimony, no child support, but you're paying for Lyra's health insurance. Can I check this box, the one here? I don't want to have to notify the court if I move. Ok, ok... do we have a parenting plan? Did they think we had one before the divorce? Maybe they should make everyone have a parenting plan... waive the 90 days; waive the order of resistance. You know I wouldn't move without telling you, right? Where are we? What's next?

We're done, I say, but we can't sign them now, have to sign them in court. I'm reading over the instructions again. It says we have to make an appointment for the class, then we're onto stage two. Stage two is court, I tell him, and all the paperwork that comes with it. Then we're really done.

He tells me about his friend, how he met her. He tells me she left something of hers at the house, something small, and how she came back the next day to retrieve it. I smile.

Of course, I say. Of course.