I'm sitting on an iron bench in the Civic center, San Francisco, waiting for the train to appear somewhere out of the fog. An elderly man nearby is reading a December 28 American Daily, with a headline on marital problems and divorces, and I wonder: were we more than just statistics?
I see, this edition has plenty of articles to solve these problems, but is it worth reading the expert advice now?
"MAIN CAUSES: -Person. -Career. -Loss of friendship in relationship."
And we had it all. You too controlling, I submissive. You high-paying guy, I'm a failed artist with a tendency to go home. And it wasn't love, believe me, when I stayed up until midnight, with pajamas on the sofa we had bought when we moved (our sofa), with the TV on and high volume wanting to be awake when you came back give kiss good night. It was not love when I ate my ration and yours because you and that day had to have dinner outside.
It was no love, when I used to drink beer after beer at the neighborhood bar, still nervous with you and you, keep checking documents and contracts quietly. It wasn't love, when I sold my most beautiful paintings for some racket because you had lost all your money in an idiot bet. The alpha male, the arrogant, the ambitious to the limit ...
Ours was never a marriage. Not even when I first arrived at the altar and was waiting for you to come, perhaps your father wanted to accompany you? Not even when I was sleeping alone in the matrimonial bed and you two rooms further, in your office. And should I be comforted by the fact that 40-50% of marriages end in divorce? The fact that there are others divorced on this train (now climbing on it)? "Loss of friendship in relationship"
Oh, but we were never friends. We were the first fools of love at first glance, the thrill of an empty summer night beach. And when I was trying to talk about things I had kept hidden during my childhood, raise my head and give me a look:
"What the hell doesn't that go with you?" and silently, I was telling myself that maybe something was really wrong with me and that I needed to change. But 30 minutes ago, I signed up for the divorce, convinced that I always wanted to be who I am now. That's what I've always been. And I don't hate you, but please don't ask me to meet you sometimes on weekends when you come to work in my hometown. This is a farewell, a farewell letter. Once, (probably never) yours, I !!
* Note: This letter was sent to Anabel Facebook inbox by an anonymous girl.
