I waved goodbye as he drove away. We were amicable at the end, when we’d been living apart for several months. After the paperwork had been signed. After he knew I wasn’t going to change my mind. But he moved away, and that was for the best. We had been friends before we were married, but once we were no longer married, we couldn’t have stayed friends. It needed to be over.
I went inside and hugged my parents and cried and rode the wave of grief, hating not that it was over, but that I had let it drag on as long as it had. Stretching a relationship that would have been a fun first fling into something that it could never be. Had it ended after six months, or a year, I could have called it a successful relationship. As a marriage, it could never have been anything but failure.
Sometimes I remember his hair, long and blonde. After a shower, he’d leave it loose, hanging in waves past his shoulders as it dried. He was careless of it, in comparison to the meticulous attention I gave to my own, shorter locks. And somehow, his hair looked like the kind you’d see in a shampoo advert. But only for me. Everyone else just saw it scruffy and tied back. He didn’t understand that it was beautiful.