He left me because I slammed the kitchen cabinet door. The term “Irretrievably Broken” on the divorce filing was insufficient for him. He wrote “Other” on top of the front page then proceeded to explain I was too loud to live with.

My husband filled out the paperwork and filed it with the court. In his mind, he had done his part.

“The least you can do is to show up for the hearing because only one of us is required to make an appearance,” he said.

Open hours for divorce court are on Tuesdays from noon to 2:00 P.M. I enter the courtroom where only a clerk is present. She informs me the judge is at lunch in his chambers and he will sign off on my paperwork there.

“Hello,” I whisper as I knock tentatively on the judge’s door.

“Come on in,” says a gruff voice.

“Can you sign my divorce papers?” I stand in the doorway until the he waves me in.

“Where’s your counsel?” he asks while eating his club sandwich.

“I don’t have an attorney.” I bite my lip.

Rolling his eyes, he grabs the petition out of my hand. He asks me if there is any chance of reconciliation although my husband has written across the front page “NO CHANCE OF GETTING BACK TOGETHER” with his favorite Sharpie marker.

I can tell he was angry by the way he wrote his letters – each word progressively getting thicker as his anger bubbled to the surface.

“DON’T SLAM THE FRONT DOOR” was printed on bright yellow stock paper and glued to the daylight window in our foyer.

“STOP SLAMMING THE CABINET DOORS” was written on several index cards and taped all over the kitchen.

“YOU’RE TOO LOUD” was smeared with red lipstick on my bathroom mirror.

The judge’s question is only a formality. His pity washes over me and I can’t look at him. I shake my head.

“Why didn’t you ask for anything?”

“He said it would be easier this way.”

“Mrs. Mallory, I shouldn’t give you legal advice but do you want to counter with a cruelty charge?”

I blush. My husband conditioned me to pause – to be afraid – to watch my volume – to think everything through before speaking. I touch my throat to soften my tone.

“No your honor, I just want it to be over. Ten years of silence is more than enough.”

“Alright then. I grant your divorce.” The judge signs the decree and hands it back to me. “Take it to the clerk for filing. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I hand the documents to the clerk.  The ladies behind the counter see what my husband has written and they snicker.

“You should get a certified copy in a few weeks, Mrs. Mallory.” The woman slides the receipt through the window.

“It’s Michelle.” I look down and smile.

I run to the parking garage, my heels pounding on the pavement. I haven’t heard that sound in such a long time.

I accidentally hit the alarm on my car remote. I panic and I look around for him. After a few seconds, I know he’s not there. I slam the door closed. I take in a deep breath, without worrying that my sinuses are too loud.

I enter my new apartment and let the door close, naturally. “Boom!” I chuckle.

I throw my keys onto the glass tabletop and the chime echoes throughout the living room. I throw up my arms. “Score!”

I pull a plate out of the kitchen cabinet. The dishes are not separated by parchment paper to dull the clinking. The cabinet doors do not have a slow release hinge like my ex-husband installed at the house. I let the handle fall from my fingers. The door ricochets a few times off the frame. I do a dance of joy.

I grab a knife from the silverware tray and scoop peanut butter out of the jar. The knife scrapes the sides. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

I throw the knife into the sink, which I did not line with a rubber mat. The knife torpedoes and scratches the stainless steel. I twirl around like I did when I was a little girl.

I chomp the sandwich, slurp my Coke, and slam the plate on the counter with glee.

My arms sway over my head. And the crowd cheers.

+++

***

Yong Takahashi lives in Atlanta, Georgia. She is working on a novel and a collection of short stories.  Yong placed first in the Chattahoochee Valley Writers Conference National Short Story Contest and in the Writer’s Digest’s Write It Your Way Contest. Her works appear in Cactus Heart, Emerge Literary Journal, Meat For Tea, River & South Review, Rusty Nail Magazine, and Spilt Infinitive.