Moving On
by Charles C. Cole
I invited my ex-wife over for dinner at my apartment. The year-old divorce had been amicable: she decided she preferred women, and I decided I preferred being alone. I wanted someone to be in-the-know. I wanted to say goodbye. She brought popcorn and two bottles of wine. She never ate traditional meals.
We sat on my deck overlooking the river that cut through the center of the former mill town.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the special occasion?” asked Gloria-Anne. “You’re having a baby through a surrogate? You’re leaving town? Why not text me like a normal person?”
“You’re right,” I conceded. “I’m moving on.”
“Where? Will I be jealous?”
Big breath and out. “You know I don’t believe in suicide...”
“But you have inoperable cancer and don’t want to be a burden on me.” She had a dark sense of humor.
“No, I’m tired. All the time. There’s nothing to aspire to. Sure, we had our rocky days, but I know I’ll never find anyone better.”
“Thanks, I think,” she said. “Back to suicidal ideation, please.”
“I’m not killing myself,” I promised.
“Had me worried. You were always a drama queen.”
“But I am leaving my body, probably permanently. And donating a lot of money to curing pancreatic cancer.”
Gloria-Anne reached over and smacked my shoulder, hard. “Ass hat.”
“Everybody knows you can find anything online. I found a broker. He represents a long list of noncorporeal clients looking for a human body to call home.”
“Are we talking possession?” she asked.
“You’re quick. Yes, but more civilized.”
“Where do you go, exactly, while this business transaction is transpiring?”
“I don’t know. They don’t know. But I’m not dead, technically, so it’s not suicide. My replacement will have access to all my memories and work skills. For all intents and purposes, he’ll be me. I’m not close enough to folks at the office that anyone’ll notice the difference. But you probably will.”
“You want me to talk you out of it? I don’t know if you know this, but you can be very stubborn once your mind is made up.”
“No, it’s done. Or will be.”
“You want me to support your decision? Because that’s not gonna happen. Don’t get me wrong. There were definitely times I wished you a mini-vacation in hell, but this...”
“Remember that time I donated a kidney to that guy in North Carolina? I thought it was somehow gonna give my life purpose. It did, for the many months’ worth of tests and dieting leading up to the surgery. But then it was over. And life went on. You told me not to expect cake at the office. You were right.”
Gloria-Anne reached over and smacked my shoulder, again. “You want cake? I’ll buy you a stupid cake. I’ll even help you eat it.”
“Most demons, I’m told, are not warm and fuzzy and in touch with their softer emotions. I was afraid you’d bump into the new me at the grocery store and think I was ‘attitudinal,’ an ass hat. I wanted you to know that I’m okay with us, with where we are and what we went through. The dark stuff is all sour milk under the bridge.”
Gloria-Anne stood, all five-foot-one of her, and looked longingly at the empty bottle of wine between us. “If you’re serious about this, we need more wine, pronto. It can even be the sweet kind.”
“I love you,” I said.
“That ship has sailed, my dear ex-husband, and disappeared with all hands over the edge of the flat earth.”
“Are you okay?”
“You’re the host. Go grab more wine from the fridge while I cogitate on the meaning of life.” She sat heavily while I took the empty bottle into the apartment. When I returned, with two poured glasses and a new bottle, the river sounded louder. I was glad for the white noise to prevent any neighbors from overhearing. Gloria-Anne had both arms crossed and her knees almost up to her chest.
“It sucks being on the shady side of the building but it’s not that cold,” I joked. She glared at me.
“Wine?” I offered, extending a glass.
“Yes,” she said, reaching for the open bottle and drinking like we had, many years ago, in high school. “You signed a contract?”
I nodded.
“You read the contract?”
I shrugged. “I know: ass hat.”
“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” she continued. “We’ll amend the contract.”
“Can we do that?” I asked.
“Hopefully, but, first, I gotta read the thing. Get it for me. And one of those legal yellow pads and a pen.” I did as I was instructed. “I love contracts!” she shouted. “Contracts do for me what romance novels do for most women.”
It was nine pages of small print. She read it and reread it, with lots of outraged grunts and disapproving “ahems.” For thirty minutes, I watched and waited, a little entertained and a little nervous, never quite sure what I wanted from this sentimental encounter. At last, she plopped the document facedown and laughed sarcastically through closed lips.
“Call Durwood, your broker,” she said.
“I don’t have his number.”
“Text him. Have him call my cell. And get me some ice cream, any kind.”
“I’m all out.”
“Then go to the store.”
I did as instructed. When I walked in, Gloria-Anne was putting her mobile phone into her purse. “You’re welcome,” she said. “He knew exactly where you’d be, in a deep sleep on a dark shelf.”
“I hope you didn’t make him mad.”
“I deal with lawyers every day. Demons are just sad little hyena puppies without teeth. I’ve got good news and more good news. We have a ‘safe word.’ If I use it, ‘demon you’ has to let you come out for a welfare check.”
“And the other good news?”
“If I ever get bored or leave the firm, I have a job offer with some pretty interesting benefits waiting for me to fall back on.”
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
