You checked in seventeen days ago, both of you knowing without saying it that when you check out, you’re divorced.
No computers. No cell phones. The people who needed to contact you in case of emergency knew where to call.
Seventeen days of talk. Of bickering. Of accusations. Of concessions.
Of sex. Let’s rescue this sex. How could you sex. Goodbye sex.
Room service for seventeen days. Desserts and sandwiches. The mini bar. The real drinks from room service when the mini bar seemed beneath the discourse of the moment. Back to the mini bar when the desire was for discretion.
Seventeen days that were maybe the best of your four years being married.
Lori and Abbot locked in a suite, r-u-i-n-i-n-g.
Seventeen days that were only, exclusively, indisputably yours.
"Could we have made it? If it was just us the whole time?" you asked on day six or seven.
"We never wanted it to be just us the whole time," she said.
You didn’t. You already can’t wait to tell your friends how special this was, how they don’t even know, how their divorces aren’t valid unless they’ve had your seventeen days.
"Is it just a stunt?" you asked on day thirteen or fourteen.
"I don’t know if you mean this or you mean us meeting and deciding we were in love enough to get married," she said.
This is part of your story. The fights were part of your story. The wedding, it was such a different wedding than all the other weddings, an extra meaningful wedding where some bullshit candle was lit by the two of you during the ceremony because no one had done that yet, part of your story.
"We were bullshit," she says.
No you weren’t.
"Bullshit doesn’t hurt this much," you correct her.
Doesn’t matter if you did it because it seemed more interesting than just using lawyers. Doesn’t matter what your intention was. It’s the morning of day 17 and you’re scared to leave the hotel.
"You’re sure you picked the right notary?" you ask.
He’s the last one to see you together. Everyone in the hotel lobby saw you leave, but the notary’s the only one who knows that this is it.
"And we spent seventeen days together just exploring everything we could," you rehearse as you sign where you’re told.
"It’s really important. To say goodbye right. To make sure you recognize how important the bond is that you’re breaking," she rehearses as she signs.
You agree to be the one to file. You shake hands. You both turn your backs and walk away from each other torn open and gushing every last ounce of your insides, probably anyone with a pair of eyes can see.
Happy Checkout Day!