Chapter 10
So one morning I’m at the dentist, waiting for my turn in the hot seat, and I’m thumbing through a limp copy of Cleveland Social and there she is, smiling up at me: Hailey Evans, divorce lawyer extraordinaire.
They’ve got her whole Fam Damn-ily there too.
Reckless, I think, having photos of your children showcased like that.
She looks good in the pictures. So does Malcolm “Mack” Evans, assistant professor of English at the Cleveland Institute of Technology.
Before I have to face getting my wobbly veneer repaired, I get a little five-hundred-word peek into their lives, and I feel like I’ve struck gold without even digging.
Her point, I guess, was not to let the little troubles of married life build up, lest they suddenly explode on you.
I myself like a little explosion every now and then, but it’s a wholesome thought, this idea that diligent couples would take time to air tiny grievances each day: You call that loading a dishwasher, snookums?
Might I suggest an alternative placement for some of the silverware, dearest, if it wouldn’t offend you too much?
Somehow I doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Evans really practice what she preaches. I mean, far be it from me to contradict the expert, but who could live like that? Such relentless diplomacy would be exhausting.
(Then again, so is divorce. When you’re ready to throw in the towel on your marriage, hire a hit man. It’s definitely an easier way out.)