Divorcing the Bull

The apartment is lined with labeled boxes, each packed full of the things we've accumulated over the years. Our names are written neatly on the side, the division of ten years together. We have a week left before we turn in our keys and go our separate ways. There will still be the legal side of the divorce, the official termination of our marriage. Still, in some ways, this feels more like that moment, the visual representation too drastic to ignore. I'm alone in the apartment, walking the space that once held so much life and joy, trying to believe it has come to this. In the open space, I clearly see the choices that created this final decision.

I'm fighting back the tears as I climb the stairs, see the marks on the wall from the pictures that used to line the way. I'm doing a last sweep before Eric returns; make sure we haven't missed anything. I round the corner at the top and am stopped in my tracks. The wooden frame catches my eye before the painting itself. The image of the bull bucking, a souvenir from his years of riding. I know his pictures of that time are packed in one of his boxes because I did it myself, carefully tucking each frame in with some of his blankets.

I am not sure why the painting has caused such a reaction. It has hung on the wall in that spot for the past seven years. It was one of the first things we decorated with, but I am not prepared to see it still hanging. The raging bull, bucking and kicking in fear, is the perfect metaphor for my husband. When calm, he is a majestic creature. The moment he is rattled, it turns violent, and all I can do is get out of his path of destruction. Eric has been that way since the war and looking back, I should have seen the red flags the painting broadcasts plainly.

"Morgan, you home?" Eric's questioning voice calls through the house, and I quickly move to brush the tears from my eyes. The last thing I want him to see is me crying. I've done enough of that for a lifetime.

"Upstairs," my voice is shaky as I call to him, and I cringe. I can hear the thump of his boots on the stairs, the heavy approach he always has when he is mad. Quickly I prepare, force a smile to my face as he nears.

He rounds the corner, stopping in his tracks. I can tell he is nervous, either because of the empty state of the house or some emotion I've let slip through the facade. "This place looks weird with everything in boxes." His words stop me, catches my breath in my chest. It was the same thing I first thought when I entered, though he doesn't seem upset about it. If anything, there is a relief in his words, a tension he has held for years released.

"Well, not everything." The words surprise me. I didn't want to hide the fact the picture is still hanging on the wall, but I also wasn't ready to address the metaphor I have found. I wasn't prepared to bring attention to it. I follow his gaze as he glances around me, eyes locking with the bull. A chuckle escapes him, and I exhale, not realizing I had been holding my breath.

Eric shakes his head, and I frown, his action confusing me. Before I can ask, he says, "I doubt I would have even realized I left that thing. I thought it was so important to hang when we first moved in, but it's just another thing in the background now. Do you want it?"

I am sure I have a look of pure horror on my face. I had fought its hanging when we first moved in, though I doubt Eric remembers that. Anymore it seems there are a lot of things he doesn't remember or has rewritten. I try to reign in my face, soften the reaction to a friendlier one. "I don't. It's a memory from your past, not mine. I'm more than happy to pack it for you, though."

He shrugs, and I know it will probably end up in the dumpster. Perhaps he doesn't want the reminder of what he is either, the bull hitting a bit too close to home. Words fill my head, the unspoken accusations, the longing for closure, yet I know it will only do more damage. At this point, it's too late. Nothing good will come from continuing to press the issues. Instead, I step forward, grasp the frame firmly, and lift, removing the painting from the hook it's lived on for years. I feel Eric tense, though I don't pay him any mind. "Maybe we hide it for the next renter?"

This time I get a full laugh, and I nearly melt into it, remembering all of the good times we had before I remember what I'm holding and the stark contrast in the man I gave my heart. Our marriage was like that, a constant episode of Jekyll and Hyde where I never knew which version I'd get. I suppose that's the heart of why the boxes are packed, and we have a court date scheduled, though I don't want to think about such things now. Eric was my first true love, and I worked every day to have a happy ending rather than this nightmare. It wasn't enough. "You know they go through these places with a fine-tooth comb. It would just get thrown into the dumpster anyways. If you really don't want it, I'll keep it."

I nod before I see the pain in his eyes. I'm sure my own mirror it. It's the last decision we will make as a married couple, and we both feel its finality. As soon as we appear in front of the judge, it will be finalized. The lawyer and we have already done all the heavy lifting. According to her, it's one of the easiest divorces our lawyer has ever done, nothing contested between us. It doesn't feel simple to me at the moment.

"I officially get keys to my new apartment tomorrow. I was planning to load a few of my boxes into the truck tonight, so I can get an early start," Eric says, bringing me back to the reality happening around us.

"Okay. I'm going to take a couple of loads tonight, but I've got to be at Uhaul when they open tomorrow to get the box truck for the things I need to store. I've got a group coming at ten to help me load it," I say, the last talk of scheduling. It hurts, and again I find myself fighting tears. I force myself to meet his eye, stare deeply into the brown orbs that once brought me so much joy. "Are you going to be okay?"

I watch the hesitation, the longing to say something before Eric swallows it down. "No other choice, right?"

I want to hug him, to pull him to me one last time, but I know it would just hurt both of us more. "Right. I'll always be here if you need me, just a phone call away."

"Same goes for you." At that moment, I believe the one thing I haven't for a long time, we both will be okay.