Tomorrow it will all end and begin again. Tomorrow I will meet him in the city to sign the papers to end our marriage. Not long enough in my book of second chances when I hoped that this one would endure for the rest of my life. Hah, there will be no third chance. I will dream of men who dance, wet kiss, stroke my arm with a fingertip that elicits wet dreams, shivers, romance. Not likely that dreams match reality. After a while, the hard stuff of life begins and then you find out who your marriage partner really is.

Tomorrow we will sign the papers that say I own the house we built and shared together. I will be unhooked from a man who knows the taste of mezcal, vodka, whiskey, marijuana, wine, beer, more women than he can count much less name. These are his drugs of choice to numb a perfect childhood with ponies, a swimming pool, a big white house in the country not far from Gotham, a mother who created a perfect son, and a father who was disappointed he didn’t get one.

Rebel, rebel roustabout, years later still dancing to fast music, jazz, blues, rock and roll, anything to shake the booty, who believes God is dead, God is a Goddess, takes Prozac, Ritalin and God knows what else to tame the beast, who injects his penis to make it hard, works at orgasm as if it were a climb to Kilimanjaro.

And what about me? I am the woman who chose this man. I made a marriage commitment after a two-and-a-half year courtship of living together. Long enough to know him, you might say, but really, what do we really know that is not revealed until the paperwork of marriage relaxes the dating game and the real person emerges, not just the sweet, caring, comforting, loving, supportive, tender, strong, responsible, delicious man who presented himself as the one destined to spend the rest of my life with. What did I not pay attention to that I should have?

I sit at a writing table covered with flowery oilcloth centered in a simple room with no toilet to write this story. On either side are twin beds, still made. I do not sleep here. This is where I retreat for writing. The room has one window covered with a darkened drapery that I open to look into the world beyond. I am numbed by sunlight, strong even for a mid-morning in early March, distracted by the wood pile, the ripe grapefruit ready to pluck from the tree just beyond, the wood fire now just embers under the outdoor griddle, the pomegranates dangling in luscious clusters, the rooster’s crow, the sight of a grandmother peeling spiny cactus paddles that will become part of lunch. I want to escape this narrative and write where it is safe for me–out there, outside myself, into the landscape, where there will be no judgment and deep means going only as far as you can dig into the hard, dry earth.

Last night I dreamed of dancing with a tall, fair man, agile, a sweep of sand hair across his forehead. This is no one I know. Men on my path are bald, sport short beards the color of smoke, wood ash, bleached gravel, or wear hats to cover thinned hair combed over their crowns to hide pink scalps too fragile for sunlight, or expose snow colored roots from a bad shoe polish dye job.

Lately, I have had several propositions. Take heart, you might tell me, there’s still hope. These have come from the man who drives the broken down taxi between the village and the crossroads, the man who sells blouses at the Sunday market who holds up a blanket while I try on a size much too small, the man who owns the corner store who tells me with the nonchalant waive of his hand that he doesn’t have a real marriage. None of them speak my language.

My soon-to-be former husband smells like my father. I loved my father. I remember my nose nuzzled into the folds of my husband’s neck, inhaling the pungent, salt sweet, lush smell of him, a smell like a just-tilled field after rain. This smell says, It’s all okay, I will take care of you. Now, I will have to purge to carry on. I will paint the closet that holds his soon-to-be-removed clothes, the bedroom where we loved one another, the kitchen where we shared the cutting board to chop onions, tomatoes, carrots, parsley, together as we prepared life’s sauces and garnishes. This smell is in my heart and soul, this force of nature that defines a human being and draws us to them. They say that pheromones are triggered by smell. Dammit. I do not want my clitoris to be yearning for the past. I do not want my vagina wet with hunger. Let’s sanitize these crevices and cracks that absorbed his essence. I want to neutralize this space so that I can reclaim it as my own, without regret, without some hidden message that it is not as it should be.

A sloppy first draft allows me to spill my guts out on the page without thinking twice. My fingers fly. Now, I sit again, in a different space. The story changes and I keep telling it. It cries for truth, honesty, and attention. It asks me to dig even deeper. This hurts. Who will tell this story if I don’t? So, I go at it again, try to get past the distractions of hammering outside my window, the bite of mosquitoes, my hesitation to honor my own voice, my fear of being exposed as a fraud. I take a pseudonym. I want another identity, one that does not include his name. Am I dishonest? With it, I give myself permission to write as if I am a breath soaring on the back of an angel.

***

Neshama Shafer took her name from ancient Hebrew, meaning breath, soul, or spirit. She hopes it will give her the freedom to write honestly, without constraint.