I watched our marriage end on Facebook while the History Channel told of,the Lincoln assassination onspirators’ stories. The best-laid plans ofmice and men and murderers and married people came unraveled, bit by bit, as the program unwound and the newsfeed scrolled.
I opened an article in the Guardian about young girls allowing themselves to be raped in order to maintain status within gangs. You complained about me not wanting sex. I point out that I don’t have desire for you
because you no longer respect me or admire me anymore. I call it a “chicken and egg issue." The people who seek to save the girls believe the solution is education.
I struggle to explain how I feel.
“Booth holds a candle under a blanket to see the map, struggling to stay on course."
“I want to feel that I’m more than a reflection of what you want and need, that I’m a separate, distinct person with feelings and value," I type.
“I never wanted you to be my reflection. That would be bad," you type back.
The apathetic memes scrolled by as I read your words. The irony wasn’t loston me when I wiped my eyes to stop
the pain, and started plotting a “How My Husband Is," “How He Sees Himself," “How The Children See
Him," “How I See Him." I couldn’t decide between a Roman conqueror and Superman, but then Willy Loman raised his hand. “Pick me, please," he said. Then it occurs to me that I don’t know enough about Willy to use him as an example -- but I wonder why he raised his hand. The Universe has handed him to me for a purpose.