The Divorce

He had a few drinks the night before, enough to mistake the waiter for a door. T'would help him remember he thought to himself, the fun to be had in the coming of day. He'd married a Madame with her perfumes and pearls, a painted smile as he watched her walk with first one foot and then the next, stepping in time to his funeral march. They'd promised forever in those very same rooms, with their sad yellow curtains and broken blooms. This could have been a wedding there were vows to make- I, Harold, un-take June as my wife, for better, not worse, for richer not poorer. With his eyes on her profile he thought to himself that she'd never looked more radiant than she did today. A few odd words and then it was done, all i's were dotted and the t's crossed to pronounce them completely un-manned and de-wifed. “Fancy some lunch at The Ritz, my love?" “Alright then, darling. You drive.”