Flavor Of The Week: Slim to None

It felt sad to be alone at the Municipal Building among happy couples tying the knot. I was there getting unhitched so I’d have no more legal ties to the former love of my life.

Everything had been turned upside down since Slim, my best friend and partner of 26 years, had tossed me aside two years earlier “to explore what she was missing.” She’d taken off and showed no remorse, leaving me broke and brokenhearted at 57.

By the time I went downtown to file for my divorce, I was well aware that domestic partnership in New York was a legal joke.The reputable attorney I consulted said I was not entitled to a penny and my best bet was to ask Slim for a good-faith settlement. I had hoped she would return to her senses over time, but when I wrote her last year stating my heartfelt case for financial reparations, she accused me of harassment. After that blow, I decided to officially dissolve my former domestic partnership.

Since there were no real divorce papers to sign because lesbians can’t get married in New York, I needed to impose some rituals to help me move on. I forgot that everyone around me would be so gleeful because this was the same room where couples got marriage licenses. I was surrounded by brides in white gowns and cocktail dresses, men in tuxedos and suits. They anxiously waited in lines while Best Men clapped the guys on the back and joked about them finally making it legal. Little flower girls with bouquets ran around the dingy old office as family and friends waited to witness this happy occasion, which would take place in another room across the hall.

After I’d downloaded the paperwork from the Internet, I thought I had everything necessary, yet when I got to the correct window after waiting in two wrong lines, the clerk told me, “You must first send your former partner a certified letter indicating that you are dissolving this and then come back with the form from the post office.” The procedure made little sense since the City Clerk would have no idea if the letter had been picked up or what the letter stated—only that it had been sent. I was tempted to write a nasty missive telling her off, but I restrained myself.

The following week, I mailed a businesslike certified letter, returned to the civic building and went straight to the correct line.The clerk examined my driver’s license, accepted the form, photocopied the post office receipt onto it and made copies. I wrote Slim’s address on an envelope so the City Clerk could mail a duplicate. I signed the paper, she notarized it and then I went to the payment line with my credit card. It cost $27 plus $5.30 for the certified letter.The $32.30 for my fake divorce seemed to indicate how little this was valued, although the ritual meant something important to us when we’d registered. It underscored our commitment; we were in this for life.

As I waited for the elevator and looked at my affidavit of domestic partnership termination, I felt dazed. It was so different from the giddy disorientation I felt the day when we’d happily stepped out of the elevator doors to become partners: March 2, 1993. Since the bill had recently passed, the place was filled with fellow gay and lesbian couples.The clerks were in a jovial mood, congratulating everyone. Slim’s hand was shaking as she signed the form. Upon leaving, we had our picture taken by the city photographer, who handed me a fake bouquet and a “just married” sign.

This time, I exited the building into a gorgeous summer day. Feeling relief, I decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to take in the view of lower Manhattan. As I turned around midway over the river, I was aware of the missing towers. I recalled my fear that morning; terrified that Slim might have died in the building collapse. I was so relieved when she called me crying and describing her escape.We got closer after that scare. Now I contemplated what I’d had gained and lost since she’d left.

The woman who promised to get old with me, who wrote that her career was forever dedicated to me, had split without looking back. My world had crashed down too.The first year was horrific as I struggled to recover on my own. Now I took inventory as I gazed across the East River at my city. Luckily, I had a fantastic therapist who helped me move through the clouds of grief. My mother and I became closer; my friendships got richer. My yoga practice deepened and I joined a great church. I was making more money than ever before, and I had signed with a book agent. People I had not seen in years told me I was glowing.Yet I desperately longed for some way to understand Slim’s desertion.

Two psychics I consulted told me she was not my soul mate.The reader in Woodstock described my ex as “a light thief” who zapped my energy. She saw many books in my future and said I should have had one years ago but the “draining one” distracted me. Both psychics said a new lover was coming and the best part of my life was ahead. I chose to believe them.

I walked along the Brooklyn Bridge back toward Manhattan, hopped the subway to Union Square. Glad to be on familiar turf, I treated myself to a veggie burger at Village Yogurt, a lunch place Slim never liked. It was not organic enough for her. I was happy to eat what I wanted.

At home, I emailed several friends who congratulated me and joked about my quick, cheap divorce. “Hey, mine dragged out for years and cost thousands of dollars,” a pal replied.

“Yeah but you got a house and a load of money from your ex,” I wrote back.

The following week I had a reading from a highly recommended astrologer who used to be a Jungian shrink and considered astrology the first psychotherapy. He spread both our charts in front of him on my kitchen table and said, “For the past two years, Pluto has animated your chart and it was in opposition to your moon. It was a messy journey into the underworld. Pluto is about ending and losses and leaves one with mystery and feeling betrayed. At the time of the break up, Uranus was controlling her chart, which meant a sense of self -righteousness that allows one to destroy what she loves, with no regrets, an urgency almost as if one is possessed.”

That was exactly how it felt. It was a relief to hear this, almost as if the stars had ordained her abandonment. The astrologer also noted that I would be moving into an exciting period and would meet lots of interesting people.

Of course, I realized that by consulting a therapist, two psychics, and a stargazer, I was still craving answers.Their combined words validated my perceptions and gave some closure. My shrink had been right all along—I’d have to feel the pain and get over this on my own. As for my ex, I can’t say I was surprised that the certified letter I was required to send her came back to me a few weeks later, “Unclaimed.”

Kate Walter is a freelance writer based in the West Village. Her essays have appeared in the New York Times, Newsday and many other places. She teaches personal essay writing at NYU/SCPS and privately.