The Goddess and I sit on a blanket at a concert in the park. It’s a lazy Sunday in The Dale. Jazz wafts through the perfect Arizona spring air and I inhale deeply, enjoying being out, being present and having a goal for the near future.
“I f-ing hate him.” I say to her. I refrain, as much as possible from the f-word around The Goddess. She abhors the descriptor and never, ever, uses it herself. She is the only friend for which this is true. I secretly think if she just ripped one off she might release some steam but I’ve given up hope it might actually occur.
“I know. I know,” she soothes.
“I want to kill him. I want him to die,” say I.
“I know. I know,” she repeats. “What are you going to do? Only you have the power.”
“I know.” I agree because she’s right. But a plan has been hatched.
“I just feel like I can’t move forward until he’s out of my life.”
She nods. Her wisdom can infuriate. And she’s faced enough shit in her lifetime–we should all take a page from her book. I personally don’t have the patience level but do marvel at her talent.
“I envision a violent death. And then a burial. And a big party after.”
“Maybe you don’t want to kill him.” Always the logical one. “You’ve already known death of a loved one. Why not just divorce him?” This is why the girl is in the bestie crowd.
“I could. I could just file for divorce. We could still have a party.”
“It could be fun. The best divorce ever.” This is why she is The Goddess.
“You’ll celebrate with me?”
“Of course,” says she. This usually involves a song and perhaps some dancing, accompanied by wine.
And so it’s done. I file with the judge, Dr. H, a week from Tuesday. That’s the earliest I can get in to see him. If he denies my request, he will relinquish his spot as top doc.
Gus will be blindsided. Now that I eat enough to feed a few birds, only one or two, but enough to actually feed and sustain them, its time for Gus, the asshole feeding tube, to go. As for calories, I can drink the shortcoming. No, not in wine. In the very goop Gus guzzles now. I add some chocolate syrup and down it goes. The stomach doesn’t give a damn where it comes from.
Word from Dr. H can’t come soon enough. I do have some power. He believes I know everyone in Scottsdale. Silly man. Not everyone. Just the ones who talk.
Get ready, dolls, to raise your glasses to the finest divorce ever. Clink.