Does the beginning of my romance story intrigue you?

Or does it bore you?

I had always been a suburban girl, so the notion of packing my few belongings in a pair of ruddy, ancient suitcases and moving to the country seems preposterous. But a marriage and subsequent divorce are also ludicrous ideas to me, yet here I am, holding the papers, the ink still wet out of the printer. `
Donny is adamantly opposed to the move, yet I don’t believe that this is out of any lingering attachment to me, but rather the result of an ardent concern for my psychological welfare. I can’t honestly tell whether or not his consternation is warranted. I know I have romantic notions of what rural living is like, but as my carefully constructed life bends out of shape, I find that I am willing to wager on this idealized vision.
Mom calls me a day before the move, begging me to take a breather. “If you just reconcile your thoughts,” she pleads, “if you calm yourself for a moment, you may find that taking such a drastic step isn’t a necessary part of the recovery process.”
What an odd choice of words “Calm down” is. Mother makes it sound like I’m frantic or capricious, when really, I have never been more relaxed in my life. Yet this does not comfort me: the whole span of my marriage was one deep state of relaxation, which I have learned quickly becomes an equivalent to boredom. Even Seattle, once bustling and vibrant, became another monotonous side note of my life. And when Donny would come home at five thirty, clad in a suit with briefcase in hand, the epitome of the traditional husband, I began to look straight through him. After awhile, his affections became habitual as well, and our marriage was deeply jaded.
He was the first one to break the cycle; I had tried to preserve the union for as long as possible, which never really took much effort. We were kind to each other, unwaveringly civil. This dispassion defined our marriage perfectly. A mutual yet unspoken understanding developed between us: the continuation of our nuptials was for the sake of convenience, out of politeness, and an aversion to hurting each other. If he ever had an affair, he kept the secret well, but I know that I was never tempted. I was unhappily and uselessly complacent.
One day, Donny approached me with an unusual solemnity in his expression, and I realized he desired a serious conversation. I was Intrigued at this rare occurrence, because we rarely ever spoke of anything consequential. Even before he had commenced, I knew what his talk would regard. The inevitable divorce had finally arrived, yet I was strangely dumbstruck at this progression of events.
Donny mistook my terror for some enduring devotion to him, and I never bothered to explain that it was an upheaval of my life that scared me. Physically losing him was perfectly bearable, because we had abandoned each other in spirit long ago. It was this sense of aimlessness that bothered me. Divorced at twenty seven: where do I go from here?
Divorce is strange; my friend Brie claims that it is like waking up from a long nightmare, only to find out that the dream is real. I feel as though I have sunk into a deeper, comatose sleep. My father, a psychiatrist and the one person I take great pains to avoid, diagnoses me as depressed. I don’t think that I care enough to be depressed, which might as well be characteristic of such an emotional state. The only acute and distinct feeling which I possess is one of disappointment; I’m neither nostalgic nor regretful. My other emotions are so jumbled together that I can only describe them as a heavy knot in my stomach which mostly rests in the gut and occasionally squirms into my chest.
After my mom calls me, I sort through my clothing lethargically and disinterestedly. Most of my wardrobe strikes me as being rather dull, the conservative colors meshing with the simple designs. I had discarded all of my blasé clothing when I reached twenty five, and know I am taken aback at how inappropriate my outfits are for a woman of my age. No one would be able to distinguish between my wardrobe and my mothers, the clothing is so outdated. Each article is tasteful though, and well cared for, despite the blandness, and my suitcase is soon full of neatly folded clothing.
Sighing emphatically, I zip up my luggage and proceed to gather the remaining toiletries from our bathroom cabinet. I feel aged, but when I look in the mirror, it surprises me that I still look so young. I have one of those round, flushed faces that never fails to soften the vestiges of wrinkles which are begging to form around my eyes. When I was in high school, this facet of my appearance bothered me greatly, and I am only recently appreciating this youthful feature.