This morning, three women get on the train together and they start talking about the youngest one’s impending divorce. The wounds are still fresh.
“I couldn’t believe it. He’s yelling at me because I was breaking down in front of the youngest, saying I’m trying to turn him against him. I’m like, ‘You have your new life with your bimbo, get out of my freakin’ house.’ You know?”
The other two nod assent.
“He’s telling me I’m the one who should move out, he has to start a new life. I said no, the kids go to school here, they have all their friends. I’m not putting them through that,” she says. “Jesus. What a selfish pig.”
“Excuse me, young ladies,” says a dignified older woman wearing an American flag sweater. “Absolutely not. You stand your ground, you think of those kids.” She jabs a long, painted finger into the air.
One of the other women speaks up. “I couldn’t get out of bed to leave the house for two weeks when I found out,” she says. “I felt like such a goddamned fool. I thought, am I the only one who didn’t know what was going on?”
“Me, too,” the third one says. “I lost twenty pounds, I couldn’t eat. Now I tell him, ‘So what happens when you get tired of this one? You’ll die old and alone.’”
“Yeah, well, mine told me he wanted to be friends, he said if we ran into each other at a bar, he’d send over a beer,” the second one says, shaking her head.
“You know what I’d do? I’d spit in it and send it right back, tell the bartender to make sure he gets it.”
