Excerpt from

The Weight of Fall
By
Wendy Sumner Winter

I waltzed into divorce as elegantly as I’d waltzed into marriage. Which is to say, inelegantly.

I first met Billy Bob in a manner that is almost too shameful to admit. It was the spring of 1990. I was having sex. With my boyfriend. On a couch. Where it wasn’t unfathomable that his roommates would walk in. Okay, that’s out there. I was nineteen, and horribly immature, particularly in regards to sexual propriety. One can forgive the fumblings of a kid, right?

I don’t know if we thought that no one would come into the den (through which anyone coming into the apartment would have to walk), or if we didn’t care, or, really, why we were there in the first place. It only matters insofar as it sets up the beginning, and, if I’m philosophical about it, the inevitable end, of my relationship with Billy Bob.

He walked into the room where I was “engaged,” on a bright sunny afternoon. I remember trying to quickly collect (clothe) myself and then peeking out from under the covers. I suppose it is possible that someone might not have known what was happening. At any rate, Billy Bob declared, upon first laying eyes on me, that I was the girl he was going to marry. He said it out loud. We all laughed.

Not long after, upon a disastrous and painful breakup with the boy, I decided to accept a date with Billy Bob. And I thought it would be a nice touch to ask him to meet me at the very same spot where he’d first made his declaration of affection. Obviously, I was looking to sock it to the old boyfriend. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to care all that much. Joke’s on me.

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