Let’s work on it.

We can still share the bathroom every morning, compliment each other, tighten a tie and zip a dress. We can pour coffee and pass sections of the newspaper across the counter. There doesn’t have to be conversation, as long as we are sitting in silence together.

When Bill from accounting asks about us, we can still say, “Doing good, and how are Mary and the kids?” We should offer details about the deck we are planning to build next spring, mention how Anna wants a trampoline. It makes us nervous because Kristy Mulligan was practicing her handsprings on her trampoline last summer when she over-bounced and broke her collarbone.

At night we can still cook dinner together. We’ve always been good at moving around each other in the kitchen. When we overcook the burgers, leave the stove on high too long, or forget that no one likes peas, we can just blame it on a long day’s work. No one has to know it’s because our minds were less focused on the meal than on forcing polite conversation and mimicking ourselves of two years ago.

At the table we should still ask about each other’s day. Actually, maybe it would be easier to let the kids talk. Anna will want to tell us how Charlie Watson pushed her off of first base at recess. He was just angry because he hates losing to girls. Eric probably won’t speak because he isn’t fooled like Anna. Let’s not mention that his principal called this morning because he was caught behind the bleachers smoking pot again. We should aim for a normal family dinner, free of confrontation.

After we tuck Anna in at night, pull the princess sheets up to her chest and take turns kissing her forehead, we can still sit next to each other in bed reading silently until we decide it’s late; we have an early morning and we need our rest. And when all the lights are out, we can finally turn away and pretend to sleep.

We will keep enough room in case Anna hears the monster in her closet again. It taps in secret code to the boogeyman who lives under her bed. They must be planning an attack soon because the tapping has become more frequent. Little does she know, some nights it’s us from the bathroom, tapping on the wall because we want Anna to climb in between us during the night.

Sometimes, when we are all alone, we should try and kiss. We can wrap our arms around each other and pull close. We might undress each other, unbutton our tops and slide off our pants in hopes of uncovering the intimacy we lost. But let’s be honest, we won’t look at what we uncover. We don’t want to look anymore, to see our naked bodies moving together. We’re out of rhythm now. It’s better to just keep our eyes closed.

Mostly we just want to curl up by the edges and pretend like we still know the person on the other side of the bed.

This isn’t working.

What if you stay on one side of the house and I stay on the other?

Would it help if I drew a line? There’s a permanent marker in the desk drawer upstairs. Or isn’t there red tape out with the tools? I can draw it down the middle, everything divided, perfectly equal.

Would you prefer this side or that? Over here you’d get the couch, stereo, and treadmill, easy access to the bathroom and microwave. Stay over there and keep the TV remotes, coffee machine, and loveseat, climb up the front staircase and down the back if you have to pee. Both parties are allowed within a three-foot radius of all bathrooms and food sources.

Dinners could be difficult. If you line the items down the center of the table, everything is fair game. There will be no need for pleasantries or genial requests, “Could you pass the corn, please?” when you really wish I’d choke on it. I’ll avoid your eyes, play with my food, and drink my wine in silence. I just ask you do the same.

When the phone rings, let me answer. If it’s for you, I’ll be glad to say hello, set down the receiver, and walk away. You can get the door, though. There is no need for my hands to meet yours on the knob; nor to stand awkwardly together in front of old Carrie Lutz, her platter of homemade cookies bribing you and I to hold the next community meeting. The playground off of Pinelake Street is falling apart, and if we truly care about the children we will welcome and feed the twenty-five other members of the Crescent Falls Wellness Committee this weekend. It is our turn, you know. Fake smiles and “of-course-we’d-love-to’s” before—after watching her walk down the path—slamming the door, each picturing the other locked out on the other side.

On Sunday, when the committee comes over, try to keep everyone out on the porch. Don’t serve drinks, to keep down the number of trips to the bathroom. If someone ventures inside for snacks or if Mary Richards from three houses down needs to use a bedroom to breastfeed their new boy, I’ll tell them we are considering renovations. The decorator suggested depersonalizing the house while we brainstorm. Just ignore the fact that all the frames are turned down and our wedding portrait is facing the wall.

I think it would be best if the kids are away when everyone arrives. I can just see it: Betty Logan, with her clipboard stacked full of petition sheets—sign here for tulips around every mailbox—asks Eric how school is. He stares directly into her eyes and tells her school’s great, he would live there if he could, because it fucking beats coming home to a house where you can only talk to one parent at a time. Next thing you know, Betty is collecting signatures to send us to family counseling. It’s just plain unsafe having such a domestically unstable environment so close down the street, or God forbid, right next door!

I’ll send him and Anna to my mom’s for the day.

Every night when you tuck Anna in, keep the light on when you leave. I’ll read her a story and kiss her goodnight. It’s a shame she’s outgrown her night terrors. She sleeps the whole night through in her own bed now.

Maybe I’ll make a wall out of pillows to replace her, the ones from the powder blue couch with the floral print. You ridiculed that couch when my mom brought it over but refused to spend money on a new one; maybe now it can bring you some peace. You won’t have to feel my warmth, my bare skin grazing your legs. It’s been a long time since we’ve played footsy under the covers—there’s no need to start again now.

If you try to kiss me I will slap you, hard across the face with the intent of leaving a mark, a mark so clear that people will know someone hates you. You will know it’s me. I hate you. The way you click your tongue when you read the news. How your breath always smells like stale coffee. That you fold your underwear and stack your coins on the dresser in separate piles. That you stopped noticing my good moods or when I wore your favorite color.

But you won’t try to kiss me. It would be like kissing a stranger, without the excitement.

I’m moving out.

If I’ve forgotten anything—if I leave a shirt in the closet or a pair of shoes under the bed—just tell Eric and leave a box in the garage. I’ve changed my contact information at the schools already, but if anyone calls for me, again tell Eric and he can relay the message next time the kids stay with me. Give him my mail and I’ll send him over with the divorce papers.

I’m taking the toaster, a few lamps, and half of the silverware. Keep everything else. It all smells like you anyway.

The kids can stay with me on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. Every other weekend is usually how this goes. When I pick them up, I’ll honk and you’ll just send them out. You can have them for Halloween and Christmas; they will stay with me on Thanksgiving and New Year’s.

I don’t care if you date on your nights alone. Maybe eventually you’ll even remarry. If so, I feel like it’s my civil duty to warn them that, give you ten years, you’ll stop using words like “sex,” “need,” and “love.” You’ll stop smiling when they walk through the door. You won’t move your lips when they kiss you.

I promised Eric that at his graduation this spring, I would sit next to you. I promised him a family photo in front of the stage with my arms around him and you on his other side. I promised him I would be smiling when Robby Jenkin’s father snapped the shot, and that when he looked back in twenty years at his high school graduation, he would not remember how much we all hated each other at the time. He would see us all happy together. And in nine years Anna will walk up the same steps to shake the hand of Principal Meyes, who of course is still there, and grab her diploma. By then I will hopefully be able to turn to you and smile. You’ll pass me a Kleenex and squeeze my hand. And it will be nice, in that moment, to finally not resent you.

Story by Nikki Bartoloni
Photography by Agnes Samour