After marrying Ben, my childhood friend, it was like we were still strangers. Our interactions were mostly limited to the nightly routine, a perfunctory exercise. He was so reserved that even when I brought up divorce, he only paused, then pushed himself up from the bed. “Alright,” he said, like he was acknowledging a memo. “I don’t want the kid either,” I told him. “He’ll be your responsibility.” “No problem,” he replied, his voice flat. I pushed further, “Thanks for the last few years. It’s been rough, I know.” My belongings were minimal, all packed in one suitcase. Before walking out the door, I glanced back. Ben, bare-chested with fading scratch marks on his back, stood silently on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.
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