Tomorrow we file for divorce.

The “document review” appointment is at 10:45, and there was some question over whether we both had to be there. I followed up with the office I’d originally called (why am I doing the administrating of the divorce? K. is the one who wants it) today and learned that we should really both be there to sign papers.

Throughout my life with K., waking him up so that he could get somewhere or do something on time was a recurring theme. Maybe the recurring theme. And I think tomorrow morning might be the last time I do it. I think I’ll end up calling him at 9:30 or so just to make sure he’s actually going to make it. And I will feel funny about intruding, even telephonically, into the sleepy haze of his morning when I am so clearly not invited, and I will know, practically, that it’s worth any embarrassment to circumvent the very real risk that he sleeps through it, and I will do it.

When I sensed, in the last weeks of November, that things were going downhill, that K. was receding from me, I took some pictures of him. Sleeping. The sweetness of the sleeping form of the person you imagine you will always love. The quietude of the beloved face at rest. The intimacy of the camera’s gaze because it is an invited one, because your place, as you watch that person’s breath rise and fall, is there, and you alone are allowed to look.

I did not think, then, that it would ever be painful to look at them. And yet something must have told me, because I took them not playfully but wistfully. Because in that gaze, there is hesitancy, and a little fear.