“I just have one question. Do you regret it?” says the man-child standing before me with honest-to-god tears in his eyes.
I remember the solitary nights, waiting, only for him to stagger in the door; the smell of vodka and other women pungent on his flesh. Remember my tearful pleas. Stay with me. The slamming of the door his answer.
I twist the thin gold band on my finger. Like everything else in this marriage, it’s fake.
“Do I regret marrying you?” I toss the ring; it lands on the divorce papers in front of him. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”