The morning of our next meeting I carried most of my closet in my arms, watched as a consignment store buyer considered what I was offering. She took everything. I left with three hundred and eighty-nine dollars; the hour with the divorce lawyer would be four hundred dollars. I was relieved, though she gave my wedding dress a lower sticker price than my bomber jacket. Why did everything have to be such a metaphor all the time?

I took the cash to the meeting, which was our last. We signed as the lawyer timed us to see how quickly she could finish paperwork for a divorce this clean. We were done in twenty minutes; it would’ve been less if we hadn’t paused to staple a few pages together. We had a full hour booked. “What else?” the lawyer asked. “What’s next?”

I waited. I thought she would be the one to tell us.