Turning Tables
written by: Nova Loverro
@NovaLoverro
Sitting at the oval table, the three of us —waiting for him to arrive —I snicker, almost laugh out loud, remembering how he had been late for the dinner at my parents’ home, late for our wedding, late for his lecture at the Denver Art Museum — how we had changed from our jeans and t-shirts into formal attire in the backseat of his 1989 dodge van – ducking down when other cars drove by, me pulling up my panty hose, hoping they were on straight—us laughing all the way to the side door entrance–silver and bald heads turning as we are ushered down the aisle, until he takes the stage and I take my own seat at the front row of the auditorium –sitting now at the oval table, my lawyer, his lawyer, waiting for him to arrive — late for his own divorce—I chuckle thinking about how his forgetfulness is one of those traits in a long marriage that both infuriates and ingratiates me towards him—how these are ultimately the things I will miss once I am out on my own and in complete control of my entire life.
Bits of our twenty-nine-year marriage float in and out of my consciousness—our night sleeping under the stars on a beach in Mexico, the birth of our daughter—him saying, “Go get them, champ,” as I’m wheeled into the operating room, him forgetting to pick me up from my waitressing job and me having to walk home in the snow with my big nine months pregnant belly, wearing only sandals because my feet were so swollen, him fetching a chipmunk— barehanded from under the fridge—it jumping into my hair when he told me I must look at it.
I sighed; my hands were sweating, and my laugh turned to tears; my lawyer asked, “Is he coming?” For a moment, I think about saying, let’s forget it, wait for another day, and then he walks through the door – disheveled, tripping over his feet, covered in paint – cerulean blue.
We all clear our throats at the exact same time, shift our weight in our chairs, then take out our pens and get down to business.
- Turning Tables - May 1, 2024
