He wrote out his signature and quickly slid the document over towards my side of the table.
I could feel the tears well up inside my eyes, my throat started to close off and the panic, fear, and grief settled in.
“Hurry up,” he said.
“Okay,” I said softly, lifting the ballpoint pen up and touching the point down to the fragile piece of paper. I could rip it up, I could burn it, I could scribble all over it until it was unintelligible.
“I don’t have all day,” he whispered to me.
“You used to have all day,” I whispered back.
You once reserved hours for me. You would kiss me and love me and embrace me with all my flaws included. You would tell me exotic stories and play with my hair, whispering that it smelled amazing and was your favourite thing to touch in the world. You would tickle my skin and smooth it with your palms and lips and words. I was your wife and you were my husband, the happily ever after I had always dreamed of. You loved me and I loved you. And I still did.
“I had all day before,” he replied
“Yes, you had all day before,” I croaked out, “before you met her.”
I signed the paper.
I walked out of the room.
He never saw me cry.