The papers arrived on a Tuesday, bundled with a magazine, a hydro bill, and a postcard from one of Amy’s friends (“Dallas ain’t the same without you, slut!”). I opened the envelope carefully, leaving the dense stack on the counter while I made coffee and toasted an English muffin.
The places I needed to sign were tabbed. I considered reading the entire thing over, but Lori had walked me through it already: satisfactory division of assets, refusal of further financial liability, mutual desire to dissolve the marriage . . . I got the gist.
It crossed my mind that it might be best not to get a buttery fingerprint on important legal documents. I put down the muffin.
Flipping to the first of the tabbed pages, I noticed Jon’s signature was different. It seemed larger, loopier, the Ps in his last name more ostentatiously P-like. Possibly he had jazzed it up for the occasion, or maybe I had misremembered or forgotten it. It looked like the handwriting of a stranger.
I wrote my name under his and finished the muffin. Later that day I would do something else.