Independence

The kids eat cereal in their underwear.

School is out! And for several days, I have started their late mornings with celebratory brunches.

Now, after one box of pancake mix, a package of bacon, a dozen eggs, eighteen biscuits, six English muffins, a gallon of juice, two sticks of butter, a jar of jam and one pineapple, I leave them to their own devices.

Cheerios and milk will suffice.

I will get by on coffee.

I regret that I did not stock champagne, for today marks an anniversary.

Two years ago today, I moved out of my marriage.

After several months of enduring Lucy’s bitter silence and acrimony, after sleeping alone in our bedroom as she camped on a sofa, after fending off her fists when her fury exceeded her capacity for cursing, after doing whatever I could think of to avoid it, I relented and gave Lucy her independence for Independence Day.

She was very relieved to see my back walk through the door.

Through my sorrow and anger, I was glad to get away from the misery she had made of our family’s lives.

I set up camp in dusty apartment. I put new sheets on our old bed, the one on which we had conceived our three children.

I plugged a phone line into our old computer.

I made a beeline for Craig’s List.

I found a fellow named Gus. He looked like Matthew Broderick.

He kissed me when we fucked.

Lucy never kissed during sex. “Too intimate,” she would wince, turning away.

“God, you like to kiss,” Gus told me.

“I have a lot of kissing inside me,” I told him.

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