It was almost a week before I stopped wearing my ring. I was attending a handfasting. I’ve been such a hermit lately, and it was incredibly short notice. Still, I felt an urge to go, so I made the time.

I had gone to Meijer’s to pick up some food, as it was potluck. Not much better than kettle chips. Anyway, I parked in the driveway, and just… froze, I guess. I was staring at my ring, and I didn’t even realize it. It felt wrong to wear it into a ritual setting, especially one that was a joining of lives. It felt like I’d be lying to them, to myself, and to the gods. I took it off and dropped it in the cup holder in the car, amongst the pennies that she keeps there.

I didn’t get in the car all Sunday, and any of Monday morning. By the time we were heading into work, I was panicking that somehow the ring would no longer be in the cup holder. I was deathly afraid of it getting lost or stolen. My chest would tighten up any time I thought about it.

Another cliche, used over and over again because it’s true. Used so much that the intensity of its meaning is lost until experienced.

The ring was still there. I’ve been carrying it around in my pocket, next to my keys and change. You can hear it clink when I walk, usually. The ring has always had such an amazingly clear sound… I don’t know what to do with it. Do I bury it in the yard, leaving it behind with the house? Do I take her suggestion, and have it melted down into something else, into a new meaning? A new significance? Do I pawn it, and get some practical use out of it, and hopefully let someone else attach meaning to it?

I keep thinking that this would all be so much easier if could just get out to California, and start with the moving on.

I thought that I was done with that last one. I’ve been sitting here, chatting, and realized that there’s more roiling around down there. In the tempest, if you’ll allow me the pretension.

The night that we came to the big impasse, and the word divorce was first said with a sense of finality, she went out driving. I let her go. When she left, I started to shudder, and tears overwhelmed me, and I started to sob. Really sob, like can’t-control-your-limbs sobbing. Like when you’re twelve and get turned down by that girl you like, or when you realize that you’ve thought for a long time that your wife doesn’t really care about you.

I stopped it. It was too much pain, and I REFUSED to admit that this was done. I decided that sleep would be less painful (red flag) and I went upstairs to go to bed. I got to the top of the stairs, my dog looking at me with those “gimme pettin‘” eyes, because he knew that I needed comforting. He’s just lucky that he gets to express love by getting it. I started to break down again. All of the cheese phrases about hugging yourself, about feeling yourself break deep down, about abandonment, about the cold depth of being alone… they’re easier to dismiss when they’re cheese.

It sucks ass when they’re true. When they’re real. It took me a bit, but I recovered, and went to bed. I lost myself to sleep and dreams, and I woke up feeling better. It was another day, I was in bed, and only mildly disturbed that she hadn’t come up to bed that night.

I got myself around, went through my pattern (patterns are so comfortable and reassuring), and didn’t get shocked out of it until I saw her ring finger. Empty.

It was so quick. Did she doubt? Did she just toss them away like they were worthless? Do they carry chains and cuffs instead of love? We designed them, they’re unique. Both hers and mine.

Did she pause, like I did, and stare at them, wondering what the shit was going on? Did she ask herself how she got there? Did she regret? There’s too much wall to know for sure, and it’s no longer my place to ask.

Last night, we were finally going to bed at the same time. She wasn’t going out to a party, wasn’t going back in to work, and wasn’t staying up to read Harry Potter. I come up to the bedroom, find her dressed, laundry basket in hands, and her pillow on the top.

She headed for the door, and I asked why she had her pillow. She said she was taking it downstairs. I asked her if she was sleeping on the couch, surprised, and she answered with, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to sleep in the same bed.”

The last time that we had slept next to each other, even after she had stopped wearing her rings, we had both slept as we had before. Undressed, and close to each other. She had inched toward me, and cuddled me. I was taken aback, because she had put up so many walls between us. She told me something about there not being anything wrong with still cuddling. I pressed back against her, letting myself drown in the feeling.

How many more chances like this was I going to get?

Looks like none.

I still think that there’s a chance that this isn’t going to reach its conclusion. I still hope to avoid divorce. I understand, logically, why we are doing this. I don’t like it. It scares me, and I am questioning myself at every turn, because if I were cool, she wouldn’t be leaving me. If I were good. And that’s the looming depression over the horizon, the mind weasel nibbling away at my confidence.

She is my wife. Why doesn’t that mean something?