It’s not a love. It’s not a love. It’s not a love. It’s not a love song

This, for me, is a memory-rich time of year. Fall. I know every smell and color and they all link to something. These weeks, Halloween passing and Thanksgiving coming, have been a series of snapshots, comparisons against last year:

Then:
L showing up at my gym, a Tuesday. Cocky grin and arms crossed, coming to lean into me and let me know that, really, the silly charade was done. Time for me to give up this little moving-out thing and come home. Hinted that he’d forgive me when I came to my senses and remembered how good I had it with him. When I realized what a mistake I almost made, leaving, giving up on him, getting all upset about a little fling.

And now:
L showing up in court, for our divorce, and asking if I was “ok,” ready with a hand on my back, to comfort. Sitting inches away, behind me, laughing as he said we should start making out. That would freak out everyone in the courtroom, wouldn’t it? and then, after the divorce was final, after I’d answered the judge’s final question: “is this marriage dead?” with a frozen-faced yes, asking if I’d like to walk across the street for a quick tour of his new office. Leaning in. cocky. Asking for a hug.

Then:
Finding new pain in the knowledge that he was flaunting the affair around the office and at a party with his colleagues, our friends.

And Now:
Finding the courage to go to that same party, this year’s version, alone. Knowing I’d be faced with his colleagues, our former “couple friends,” who I hadn’t seen in over a year.

Finding some level of healing on learning that they KNOW about the affair. They KNOW it wasn’t my fault the marriage ended. They clucked. They gossiped. They said he was crazy. They talked about her: an overgrown wannabe prom queen on weight watchers. They rumored that his leaving his newspaper job was NOT entirely his choice, maybe he was asked to leave, the affair was a scandal.

She emailed me a few days later. “I heard you were talking about me behind my back at that party. Is there something you want to say to my face? He left you because he didn’t want to be married to you anymore. It had nothing to do with me.”

I resisted the urge to ask if she knew how often he’s contacted me, apologetic, over the last year.

I resisted the urge to remind her she’s married with two young children and hardly in a position to send me catty jealous girly emails.

I resisted the urge to ask her if she knows her colleagues aren’t falling for her dressed-in-all-black-for-slimming-effect look.

Instead, I said no, thanks, I heard all I needed to hear. No need for us to talk. But thanks for the offer. Smiley face icon.

Then:
Signing up for match.com, building a careful checklist for the perfect mate. Having fun ruling out matches based on his favorite restaurants.

And now:
Signing up for more time. Admitting I’m further from “ready” than I was a year ago.