Before my crossword puzzle was completed, it spelled out a revelation in five easy letters that six months of therapy had not. Should I stay or should I go, wasn’t playing on the radio, but it was the tease line of my subconscious as I passed the morning with the New York Times. NUMBER 6 down read, “To depart from” and I already had the L, first box, followed by 4 blanks. The answer. LEAVE. That was one month ago today, the first day of the September equinox, and one day after my seventh wedding anniversary.

***

Let me make myself perfectly clear; yes I know it takes two to tango in any relationship, but what does one do when there is no music to dance to? I mean like never. No affection of any kind. Zippo. No sex, not even first base. Okay, there was a goodnight peck from Jeffrey that sometimes landed on my lips. Some nights I tried to convince myself it was enough for me, other nights I wanted to hockaloogie down his colon-esque throat. Talk to ME about a lack of intimacy. He even walked ten feet in front of me when we for a walk, which was less frequent than our 1099, at least it felt that way to me. Out and about as a couple, a rare occasion, always in second place, I pictured the back of his head as a dart board while fantasizing about hitting the bullseye. Yet oddly, when I’d ask him if something was wrong, or expressed my displeasure over our lack of intimacy, as any breathing consenting adult in my shoes should, there were approximately 1,000 eggshells beneath my Uggs. I saw myself shrinking before him, like the kid on the playground that gets picked last.

When I brought that snafu up to my therapist, she pressed me hard. “What are you afraid of Anita? You have every right to ask for what you want. Do you think there’s a possibility it is you that doesn’t want to be close with him?” Did she doubt my bucket load of marital woes? In defense of her questioning, I get it. It’s what therapist do. But since Jeffrey refused to join me on the couch of squirm how far could this guide hound take me? Besides, I was becoming increasingly bored with her search in the corners of my tangled web, so I dumped her.

Why would anyone insist on staying in a marraige with no touch, no talk, which bottom line was the whole pathetic defense of my argument? But he did. So he said. And I didn’t. And he answered my dire awkward pleas for intimacy with, “Dont be so needy, Anita. Are you searching for problems? Because if you are, you are the problem. All marragies get stale in the romance department after the honeymoon.” Is that true? I’d casually back away from the topic until the loneliness would slap me silly again and again, for seven long years, subsisting on his version of a normal marriage:

OUR WORK WEEK: got up in the morning, showered, solo of course, went to work, one or two bland texts like, “Pick up milk,” or “How bout Chinese,” come home, a meal side by side while watching tv, he always had dibs on the remote, no talk, (FALSE: I remember, “Pass the salt,” “The toilet’s clogged,” and “Why did you burn the toast?”) no touch, (100 PERCENT TRUE) then an okay goodnight, the peck, sleep and repeat.

OUR WEEKENDS: more tv and....I can’t remember anything else memorable other than perhaps what a trout must feel like swimming upstream. After eating a big fat marital nothing burger for seven years, one might crave a piece of steak. Could somebody say I’m done? I could. Well done.

***

A month ago, when the crossword LEAVE hit me like a ton of bricks, I put all the wheels in motion for a transfer with my job that comes with temporary housing. Working as a radiology technician for a national medical group had its perks. My transfer came through. I was all systems ready set go.

When I told him I was leaving, I was shocked that he was shocked, because he begged me to stay and finally offered to go to therapy. “Ha.” I said. Just one obnoxiously loud, “HA!” And then the words. “Too late.” Too late Baby, like the song was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want him to misinterpret my use of the word baby. It really would have been an Arnold Schwarzenegger “Hasta la vista” use of the word baby, but why antagonize? And my grand finale parting words were said with a clear conviction, “Let me know when you find a lawyer and I’ll text you my new address. Have a nice life.” Short and sweet, just like Jeffrey rolled. Maybe he found the bullseye on the back of my head as I walked out, because he didn’t try to run after me, and at this point, that was just fine with me.

Earlier that Saturday, before we bid adieu, I checked out Google maps and packed my clothes while he was out doing whatever he did on Saturdays mornings. He was usually home by 11am, which was my ETD to LEAVE. I’d always wanted to see more of New England and I looked forward to driving up the coast during the onset of Autumn. As I packed, I kept the weather channel on, listening to the reports of the peak fall foliage. Can’t say why, but I’ve always had an affinity for weather people. They just always seem so excited about the weather even when it’s just another day, storm free. According to Jay, the weatherman, the kaleidoscope of colors would intensify with each mile driven away from my old life and the metamorphosis of the leaves from life to death would be anxiously anticipated, along with the decomposition of my marriage. OK. Jay the weatherman didn’t say all that. But sometimes, especially during monumental life altering occasions, a little elaboration and exaggeration shouldn’t be off limits.

Texting and driving isn’t the only motorist faux pas. The leaves were always there along the route driving through three states on I95, but I was a virgin Autumn roadie and that my friends can turn into a very dangerous ride. There was not even a parrot with me to hear my oohs and aahs, but I let them rip anyway, my two hungry eyes pulling like pork towards the oranges, yellow and especially the reds. With my window cracked, I wouldn’t have been surprised if those passing suspected a state violation in progess of penal code 647. When I was notified by my GPS that I had arrived at my new fave on Waze at 4:48 pm, it finally hit me. I was alone. In the process of a divorce. In a strange town. Where I did not know a single solitary soul. For a second, I longed for my soon to be ex-husband’s nightly peck but immediately flicked that thought like a booger.

After picking up the key from the super, I let myself into the first day of my new life. “It will do. For now.” I thought. “Small but cozy. Furnished. Shabby chic.” The sun was setting out the picture window in need of Windex, but through the haze, I choose to gaze out at only the top fifty percent of the glass letting my eyes feast upon the rolling hills that could be the background scene for a fall harvest festival ad. Yeah, the railroad was also there, looking through the bottom fifty percent of the glass, but that didn’t turn me off. On the contrary. I was warned about that and the person giving me the low down was pleasantly surprised by my enthusiasm. Having grown up one block from the Long Island railroad, locamotive sounds at night became as soothing to me as a lullaby. Would I prefer an oceanfront villa, while listening to the rhythmic surf? Indubitably! But perhaps that awaits on a different page in the journal I have not yet written.

Some would call me a germaphob, and if they are right, oh well, could be worse. The first thing I unloaded from my car, after my sore dariare, was the box of cleaning supplies I had purchased at Target, along with my new sheets and towels. White of course, because they are bleachable. It probably didn’t need it, but since germs are invisible, I cleaned every square inch of the place, including the door knobs and the ceiling molding. I must have fallen asleep to the 11 o’clock news after lying down on my fresh bleach scented sheets, because that’s the last thing I remember doing when I heard a knock on my door. I looked at my phone, 7:42 am. I had slept all night in my clothes. “Perhaps it’s the super,” I thought and said, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Kathy Grey, your new neighbor two doors down. I saw you moving in and I thought you might like a cup of coffee.”

“Does she know me or what!” I thought with glee when I recognized the coffee logo on the cups she held. Maybe I wasn’t all alone in a new town, because an angel stood before me with a Starbucks venti pumpkin spice latte! “How nice!”

She looked a little older than me, but in decent shape, and very pretty with red hair. Her lipstick was a little crooked and I was tempted to wipe my finger across her lip, but that would have been more than a little weird. “Come on in,” I said, and she did, and 2 hours later, I surmized I had a budding friendship. In the seven years I was married, I really hadn’t made any close friends. No one I would miss, anyway, and maybe the therapist was on to something when she pressed me on my potential intimacy isues. Why didn’t I have close friends? Maybe all that was about to change. Kathy told me she was out of work on disability and I didn’t think it was appropriate to pry when she glossed over that topic, but I did notice the curve ball. Whatever it was, I figured she’d probably tell me when she was ready. Perhaps she was close to full rehabilitation. She told me she worked for the corporate offices of FedEx. She then looked at her watch and abruptly said, “Well, I’ll let you go. It’s time to walk Bono.” “Bono?” “Yeah. My Welch Terrier. Walk with us, please?” “Nah. I’ve got more unpacking to do, but I’ll take a rain check on that.”

“OK. Hey why don’t you let me make you dinner tonight?”

“Really? That’s so nice of you. All I’ve got is cold cuts, a loaf of bread, a carton of milk and granola. What time?”

“Come over at 5:30. We’ll have a glass of wine before dinner. Do you like red and do you like beef stew.”

“Yes and yes. Thank you so much Kathy. I’ll see you then.”

Dinner with Kathy was delightful. We conversated equally, neither one of us dominated the narrative. It surprised me how much we had in common. We said so many “me too’s” it became redundant. Something we didn’t have in common was the subject of infidelity. Turns out that Kathy had been having an affair with a married man at FedEx for 15 years. Her one and only serious relationship! “15 years!” The words came out of my mouth like a cannonball. Instantly my heart tugged for this unknown cheater’s wife, and a little bit for Kathy too, and I wondered if something similar was responsible for my marital train wreck. She went on to say. “He treated me very well. Chocolates and flowers every time he came over, which wasn’t often, but what was I supposed to do? We were in love and he didn’t have the heart to leave his children. We finally ended it, his call and I can’t bring myself to date anyone else. I’m still in love with him.” Who does that for 15 years? What a waste of time, but I told myself don’t judge, hard as that was going to be, so I listened, and the sordid details started to make sense, or more likely her paramour’s con worked so well on her, she spilled it well onto me.

I cashed in my rain check and walked with Kathy and Bono on Sunday. Our conversation was pleasant and flowed, but was not as heavy as the previous night. Perhaps it was the wine and I hope she didnt regret her vulnerability. She invited me over again, for left over beef stew, but I told her I had paper work to do for my new job and she seemed earnestly disappointed. “How nice,” I thought. In a couple of days I felt closer to her than I felt to Jeffrey after seven years. She asked me if she could drive me into town to show me the ropes and I told her I had already stopped briefly before I arrived. “That’s where I picked up my staples.” “Oh.” She said, with a pause and a pained look upon her lightly freckled face. “You didn’t tell me that.” Which I thought sounded kinda weird, but no biggie. We said so long and I went back to my place to enjoy the solitude. Funny how things can flip on a dime. I had been anything but alone since I had arrived.

Work was okay. No matter what the first couple of weeks at a new job is daunting. There were some cool people I suppose I wanted to get to know better, including a couple of cute guys that seemed to be checking me out. I’d already read and initialed the center’s sexual harassment policy, and I was totally down with it, but thoughts and conduct are two different animals. Word up is every Friday night there was a happy hour gathering at this place near work called Big Marty’s.

During the week, Kathy called me every night to check on me, asking me how she could help, did I need anything, do I want to come over for dinner. No. No. No, but thank you. What a sweetheart. I told her about the gathering at Big Marty’s and she said it was a cool place. I didn’t invite her up because I thought I should concentrate on getting to know some of my coworkers outside of work. The medical center was so busy, and with all my orientation, by Friday I barely remembered their faces, but there they were at the end of the main bar when I arrived. A head count of about ten, mostly female, and unable to go unnoticed, those two cute guys, a neon beacon to my eyes. As I approached the group, they had not yet noticed me when I heard from behind me, “Hello Anita” in a stealthy tone. Thinking it was another coworker coming in razzing the new kid on the block, I turned quickly bumping breast bones with none other than Kathy Grey. “What are you doing here?” Somewhat accidentally spitting at her with my words, not totally overtly rude, but a stalkee knows the moment they are being stalked. Although, I did tell her I was going there, so does that qualify as a bonafide stalk in the book of stalk? I think it does. Either way I was weirded out and then rendered speechless, because her current demeanor was totally not reflective of the woman I broke bread and communicated with all week. I almost didnt recognize her in a Lindsay Lohan mugshot kind of way. Breathing at each other like two foreign dragons, almost nose to nose she said softly through gritted teeth, “I came to ask you, why do you need them, when you have me?” And it was then that the red flags popped and the alarm bells went off. I was pretty sure I just figured out the nature of her disability.

When he was twelve, he broke the crown.

If it had been an heirloom vase, the Queen might have forgiven him. An ornate dinner plate, perhaps, or even one of the stained glass windows in the stunning cathedral. All could be replaced, and in their large kingdom--founded on the art of glass blowing--there was plenty of glass to spare. Craftsmen would have lined up from the lower town to the palace just for the honor of replacing any item the young prince destroyed.

But the crown... It was a gorgeous piece, lending true awe and crafted over a span of twenty years by some of the kingdom’s most skilled fingers. A royal symbol of power, it had been blown and shaped from delicate glass into tall, twisted spires. The crown’s eight points had long been held as the finest craftmenship the world had ever seen. People traveled far and wide to behold it.

In the sprawling hills of Stolvay, the crown stood at the very heart of the kingdom’s identity. A sewn image of it flew on every banner of every tower. Tapestries proudly depicted its laborious creation. Every knight proudly bore its likeness on his chest. As he grew, Prince Florian watched his father wear it, but only during important addresses. When the crown wasn’t on the king’s head, it sat safely inside a beautiful glass case within the throne room--set between the King and Queen’s complementary glass thrones. When it did sit on the king’s head, five specially-trained attendants trailed him at all times, ensuring it did not fall off and shatter.

In his prime, King Dorian was a beloved ruler. An artist himself, he understood the people and the guild market his land flourished by. Early on in life, he studied with the very best guildsmen, and by the time he was crowned king, one of the windows in the largest cathedral displayed his own glass craftsmenship. When he married Princess Evana of Tolvia, he made sure she learned the basics of glass making; that way, she could understand the culture she was soon to help dictate.

Evana took to the task with more love and skill than Dorian could have ever dared hope for. She was a natural artist, and before long, the cathedral sported her work as well. Queen Evana became as beloved as the king, and when she bore a child, the kingdom rejoiced for weeks after the prince’s birth.

Prince Florian didn’t remember much about his mother, but he believed if she had lived, she would have forgiven him. Maybe his father would have, too, but not Queen Odile, his father’s second wife.

Odile was not a nasty woman. She didn’t love Dorian, but she did her civic duty. She learned the craft of glass making to the level Dorian asked of her, and she accepted the role of replacing Evana not only as a queen, but as a mother. It was a lot of pressure for a twenty-five year old, but she did her best, and the kingdom recognized her for it.

However, the new queen was not born to lead. When Dorian died, Odile was thrust into a fourth role she didn’t ask for--the role of a sole monarch. The responsibility was simply too much. She could not be a queen, a sole ruler, an artist, and a mother all at once. Poor Florian fell to the wayside, and to her dismay, he also became more and more problematic.

She was told everything. Florian’s instructors reported to her daily. They described to her how Florian was a disaster at glass making and how he broke nearly everything he touched. They told her how he couldn’t seem to stay focused on anything, and how he got distracted every time something glinted in the sun. “But most everything is made of glass in Stolvay,” Odile argued, frowning. “Surely many things catch the sun, and often.”

“Yes,” agreed Florian’s instructor, sighing. Exhaustion ghosted every line that creased his face. “His Highness turns his head so very much. One day soon he may become an owl.”

The instructor shook his head in defeat, and Odile’s frown deepened.

That deep frown became her constant expression in the years to come. True to the queen’s wishes, Florian’s instructors never spread the news of the prince’s lack of skill. If the people of Stolvay learned of his incompetence in the craft, they might not accept him as their king when he came of age, and that simply wouldn’t do. Odile wanted nothing more than to hand the crown off to him. She simply needed to hold on until he turned thirteen. Hopefully by then Florian would be skilled enough to rule in the style of his father--an artist who governed artists.

Odile did pray about it. She did try her best. She provided Florian with the very greatest instructors, both in glass artistry and in focus training, but no one could stop the prince’s brain from wandering, nor his hands from shattering instead of creating.

She supposed she should have seen the day coming. At twelve years old, Florian was so close to coming of age, but when a battle is almost won, monarchs often grow cocky and self-assured. Odile had survived five years without disaster. She could handle one more.

Intrepid little Prince Florian, though--despite his lack of attention and skill--did want to be like his father and mother. He did want to be good at glass making. He did dream of making something as beautiful as the Stolvay crown. I can do it, he thought to himself with his little twelve-year-old mind, filled with the type of bold determination almost-teenagers have. I just need to look at the crown. I just need to see how they did it.

In the end, Odile should have seen it coming. She should have been ready, but Florian and his fate was simply a final topper on her failures. He may not have been her flesh and blood, but they were so very alike--Florian broke everything he touched and Odile couldn’t mend the holes she was given.

The destruction of the Stolvay crown was not something she could ignore. A call needed to be made. The current queen did not hold the love of the people--not as Dorian or Evana had. Florian was not fit to take the throne, and now there was no crown to even crown him with.

She wrote up the decree herself. She hoped the sadness in her voice reached him as she banished him. There was nothing else to be done. If he could come back bearing a replacement of the Stolvay crown--a piece just as exquisitely done as the one he’d destroyed, and one done by his own hand--then he could take his rightful place as king. If not, Odile would retain her hold on the kingdom and planned to remarry, starting her own royal line.

Again, Queen Odile was not a nasty woman. She was just a tired girl who really tried her best. She never wanted to be queen.

Prince Florian was also not a spoiled brat. He was just a distracted little boy who wanted to be like his father. At thirteen, he did not take his banishment as a sentence. He accepted his fate head on. He set out to make a new crown, and people still say that as he left--so very determined to succeed--he looked just like his father.

To this day, ten years later, the craftsmen and women of Stolvay still look out to the crest of the hill the prince disappeared over, waiting to see if he’ll return one morning with a crown of breathtaking beauty glittering in his hands.

Queen Odile does, too. Maybe then, she prays, she could die peacefully, having mended at least one hole.