counseling

The office was in one of those oddly angled rooms carved out of an old house. It felt sad, he thought. He had no clue anymore to what she was thinking. She sat in the chair by the window, he to her right. The counselor sat across from them both. He wore a green flannel shirt and green cargo slacks. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a soft, almost russet voice. He looked tired. He was. Her jaw was set. This was the third meeting. The previous two had been uneventful. This would be the one where they would decide things. In the first two she’d talked about how she didn’t love him, anymore, about how maybe she never did love him, even during the first few years of their 28 years together. He – her husband -- mostly listened. Truth was, he didn’t know much of what to say. She tapped her shoe. She was ready to go. He could tell. “We’ve come to the point,” the counselor said, “where we need to decide whether to continue in an attempt to reconcile or to continue and to prepare for divorce.” The room was silent, but only for a moment, and not a long one, at that. “I’m done,” she said. It was, perhaps, one of the most matter of fact things she’d ever said. Her certainty was painful, at least to him, the husband. The counselor looked at him and he shrugged, almost apologetically. She said, “Is that all, then?” She never looked at him, but just stood, turned, and left the room. Four days later, she would call him when her car wouldn’t start at the Hannaford. He told her she was on her own, now. She called him an asshole.