When I asked for a divorce, my wife was cooking.
Her hand trembled slightly. “All right,” she replied softly.
This was the tenth time I’d asked for a divorce.
The first nine times, she’d cried and made a scene like a madwoman, saying that asking someone with one foot in the grave to get divorced was no different from forcing her to die.
I was sick of the old-person smell on her. My mistress was nothing like that, full of life.
I never expected her to agree this time.
She agreed so casually, as though I’d simply asked what we were having for dinner.
I watched her busy herself in the kitchen.
Along with my delight, a nameless unease began to rise...
