I’m a rookie at therapy. Is it like at the doctor’s office, one problem per visit? 

Ha! Made you smile already. 

Tell you what’s on my mind? Sure. Lately, it’s been stuck in a glitch. Eleven years together. One random morning, out of nowhere, Sara says, “I don’t want to be married to you anymore, Marc.” 

I was half asleep, doomscrolling, starvation in Sudan, Iran on fire. Turns out, my personal doom sat across the table, by the almond butter. I pleaded with her, promised to do whatever she wanted to save our marriage. 

“You’re too obsessed with saving the world,” she said, back to me at the sink, yellow rubber gloves in sudsy water, ponytail bobbing. 

I can still hear the hollow echo of the door slamming, still feel the sting of those last words: “I should have left you ages ago.” 

She took our dog…my dog, Rawi. I keep reaching for his leash, ready for our daily stroll. I used to whisper things to him I never said to Sara or anyone. Normally, I’d cuddle up to him for comfort. Oh, the irony.

Get another dog? C’mon Doc. Rawi’s not a goldfish. He’s an affectionate, loyal golden retriever. Had him since he was a pup. 

Another partner? Not likely. It’s only been a month. Meanwhile, she changed her cell number. I can’t leave any more messages. If I run into her, I might propose ballroom dancing lessons. Maybe a belated tenth-anniversary celebration, a cruise or Santorini-style holiday. I’m careful about my carbon footprint, but I’d make an exception under the circumstances. Speaking of exceptions, if I had my time back… She sings in a choir. I used to attend her concerts. Eventually, it was too much harmony for someone like me. I’m addicted to the thrill of breaking news. She placed second in her age category in the waterfront marathon. I missed seeing her cross the finish line. The strikes on Lebanon had me glued to the TV. Anyway, I’m not into sports. She claimed I wasn’t into her. Now, my brain’s caught in a loop going over what I said, could, should have said. 

Ruminating. Yes. Good diagnosis. Thanks. 

I proposed marriage counselling. 

“Why bother?” she said. “It’s O-V-E-R.” 

Whatever happened to till death do us part? Damn. Wish I had something to pound my fist against. 

No, Doc, I haven’t been angry a lot lately. More like shell-shocked. Here one minute, poof, the next. Even hearing the name Sara, for example on the radio, gives me sweaty palms and palpitations. I’ve moved into the guest room, in the lonely twin bed instead of our giant king. Been living off microwaved Campbell’s soup. I prowl the bathroom for a whiff of her coconut-scented shampoo. Her constant humming used to get on my nerves. Now, I’d trade a month of headlines to hear it again. I dread telling my folks. Dad gets off on comparing me, the lowly copyeditor, with my happily married optometrist brother. Five-bedroom heritage home, three sons in a private school. I was doing some fundraising for a not-for-profit and called out my brother for only donating twenty dollars. He accused me of virtue signalling. Another fine example of people not understanding who I am, what I stand for.

  Mom’s always prying. “When are you two going to have little ones?”

I want to say, “Mom, first, there is no ‘we.’” At least not for now. Second, we’re both too old. Third, fourth, and fifth, why bring kids into this terminally ill world? The next disaster’s a swipe away: zombie fires, bioterrorism, nuclear winter, rogue AI. Stand back in the subway or be shoved onto the tracks. No righteous God in sight. When I told Sara that, she said I’m alarmist. I accused her of being superficial.  

“I don’t see you doing anything to rescue the human race,” she said. 

I had my own comeback. “Give you a big bowl of Corn Flakes and let you watch reruns of Friends.” 

“Fine with me,” she said. “You do enough fretting for the both of us.” Classic Sara. 

We’re all guilty to a degree, with our iPhones and lattes, but at least I proofread my behaviour. 

How does that make me feel, you ask? 

Empathetic in a numb society. ‘Race not for the swift, nor battle for the strong.’ Quote, unquote. You commit to doing good, pray the wars will end, the hungry will be fed, the hurt healed. You donate to the cause. You assume your spouse will love you forever. None of that’s done me any good. We’re all vulnerable as crystal in a child’s clumsy hand. Some days, I want to hit delete, redeem the rewards for my good deeds, and pretend I exist in a tale with a happy ending. Daily cocktails at six. Canapés on the side, s’il vous plaît. 

You’re frowning. Excuse the lame humour. It’s left over from the days when my punchlines made her smile. Eventually, they got on her nerves. 

She’d give me a condemning glare and say, “For God’s sake, Marc, retire the stand-up comic.”  

According to Sara, I joke to hide my neurosis. Who does she think she is, Dr. Phil? When her sister had a miscarriage, I spewed stats about maternal death rates. I probably should have given her a hug, not data. Jesus, what have I become? Phew. I’d appreciate some air conditioning. Sweat’s beading on my forehead. Another panic attack coming on.

Take big breaths? Like this, you mean? 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Count to five for each. At two hundred dollars an hour, I’d expect you to do the breathing for me. Sorry. Hope I’m not coming across as an idiot, although if I wasn’t one, I probably wouldn’t be here ranting, picking at my scabs. I’d be doing something concrete. Like what? I dunno. Anything to feel less smug about my privilege. Social justice, political accountability: does anybody care about them? Why did civilization have to collapse on my watch? 

Oh, I get it. Christ, I really am obsessed. You meant, what am I going to do now that she’s walked out on me. What can I do? According to her, I’m incapable of fully loving anyone because I’m preoccupied with petitions, protests, conspiracy theories, et cetera. I ran into one of her girlfriends at the supermarket. She eyed the cans in my cart, laughed, and asked if I was doomsday prepping. I bet Sara told her that. So now, I’ve lost my wife and my reputation. 

That morning, arguing in the kitchen, I accused her of being fixated on her looks, painted nails, closet chock full of brand-name outfits made in sweatshops with Bangladeshi slave labor. Fat lot of sympathy that comment earned me. As for being incapable of loving, of course I’m capable. Everybody knows how to love. My mother excluded. But that’s a problem to tackle in another appointment. 

Sara said I didn’t understand the meaning of the word. She was plug-your-ears screaming at me by that point. “You’re a ghost of a husband. You forgot Valentine’s day. Forgot my birthday. Forgot to ask how my day went.” 

“So what if I forgot your birthday?” I said. “Whoopee doo! You’ve had thirty-six of them. Valentine’s? A seven- or eight-dollar Hallmark card? I’ll throw in a box of overpriced Godiva chocolates.” 

She called me a dull bore. 

I suggested we pick up a shared activity or hobby. I’m game so long as it doesn’t involve sports or socializing with other couples. “If it makes you happy,” I said, “I’ll buy us matching pyjamas.” 

Her shrill voice would shatter glass. “You’re never serious.” 

It was simply my way of admitting I could change. As usual, poor timing for a joke. No such thing as a first draft of a conversation.

“People like you can’t change,” she said. Sounded to me as if she’d been secretly thinking it for a while. 

Like you? I wish I’d asked what she meant. In your professional opinion, Doc, can people like me change? Sure, I can call you Laura. Since we’re on a first-name basis, mind if I ask what you’re scribbling in that notebook? Let me guess, self-pitying middle-aged male, rejected by his wife and parents, hero complex, adrenaline addict plus digital junkie. How’s that for honesty? Whatever it is, I could copyedit it for you, bill you by the word or the hour. 

Bingo. Made you smile twice today. At least you appreciate my sense of humour. Oh, OK, sorry once again. My bad. I assumed that was a smile. You’re shaking your head, eyes closed. Reminds me of Sara’s expressions. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re both ganging up on me. Either that, or you see through my defenses. Give me your professional take, please. Can people like me change? 

You got a better question? All right. 

What can I change? I suppose I could stop camouflaging my hurt behind humour. Doubt that’ll save our relationship. In the process, I’ll destroy the fascists. Feed the hungry too. Stop the wars while I’m at it. In case you hadn’t noticed, sarcasm’s my specialty. What else? Limit my screen time. As it is, most nights, I sleep with my eyes open, under that blue-light glow. Time flies once the cortisol kicks in. 

Hmm. You’re prescribing digital detox and breathing. Now? Seriously? Each fifteen-second cycle would set me back three dollars and thirty-three cents. I can practice breathing on the drive home. I’m a self-employed copyeditor with a stack of unpaid bills, unread manuscripts and emails. No private health insurance either. Plenty of public anxiety—nails chewed to the quick, permanent scowl. By the way, got anything better than Xanax? 

Breathe to silence the voices in my head? Problems don’t get solved because we meditate. Meditation won’t make Sara come home either. What if she was right? Supposing I do care more about ideals than intimacy, more about saving the world than our marriage? I don’t see why that has to make me unlovable. How about I save myself? I’ll start by being more honest. Here it goes…I’ve been cherry-picking her traits, getting revenge for abandoning me. Strike all that. Actually, she’s got her act together: tons of friends, gym buff, yogaholic, young-looking for her age. Good-hearted with the folks. She visited Dad regularly when he was sick with pneumonia. God, I miss what I thought we had. Hate what I am. 

Thanks for the Kleenex and glass of water, Laura. Thanks for being a great listener. Since I’m being honest, I’ll admit I came this close to cancelling my appointment today. I dreaded spilling my guts in front of a stranger. Turns out, spilling’s a bit of an exorcism. Venting, hearing myself, helps. Same goes for seeing you there, in your wingback chair.

Eleven years is a long time to be together. Long enough for us to turn into who we really are. Now that I think of it, I’ll ditch the Santorini cruise ideas. If we run into each other, I’ll tell her I want to share Rawi’s care. In the meantime, remind me of that breathing pattern again.