"Don't be," I say. "My office needed this."

Of course I am kidding, but I do find that throwing myself into my job and working crazy hours is therapeutic. I tell myself that there are benefits that come with being single again. I will be like a person who loses a loved one and, in turn, sets up a foundation. I will find the good in this loss. I will make something happen that wouldn't have happened otherwise. I tell myself to dream big, aim high. Maybe someday I will have my own imprint Claudia Parr Books . Something that wouldn't have happened if I had had a baby with Ben. Something that might not have happened if I had stayed with Ben, even without a baby. I rather like the thought of Ben perusing the shelves of bookstores and seeing the spine of a book emblazoned with my name. Maybe I'll even acquire a coffee table book on architecture. Then he'd be sure to see it.

Meanwhile, during those early weeks apart, Ben and I talk very little, and when we do, neither of us says too much. There are a lot of awkward silences, fumbling questions about mail and bills and our respective schedules. It's clear that we don't want to be back at the apartment at the same time. We toss around a few "How are yous?," both of us answering curtly and quickly that we are fine, just fine. We are both prideful, stubborn, and eerily distant. It occurs to me that maybe we are both stonewalling, stalling, calling the other's bluff. At least I hope that's what is happening, but deep inside, I know we are becoming irreversibly estranged, and I can tell Ben knows it, too.

At the end of one conversation, Ben sighs and says, "I just want you to be happy, Claudia. That's all."

It is a total non sequitur as I've just told him that I checked the messages at the apartment, and his aunt called twice.

"Right," I say under my breath.

"Come again?" he says, an expression that has always annoyed me. Ben only uses it when he knows exactly what I said, but doesn't like it.

"Clearly that's not the only thing you want," I say, picturing him with a squalling newborn.

He says nothing back, and as we both register that there is nothing he can say to this, I feel a strange little rush of victory and satisfaction. It's always a good feeling when you can produce just the right one-liner to prove your point so tidily.

"Well, see ya," I say, to drive it home.

"Yep," Ben says flippantly. "See ya."

I hang up and promptly schedule another visit with my lawyer, Nina Raden. Nina is striking, hard-edged, and abrasive, the kind of creature you envision when you hear Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman." Her lips are pumped up with collagen, and she smiles a lot, which is in stark contrast to her obvious desire to make my divorce as contentious as possible. I can tell her bread and b.u.t.ter comes from playing cheerleader to wronged women all over Manhattan. I'd wager that she's said, "Let's get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d" more times than she's said, "Good morning."

During our second session, I have to tell her three times that I do not want to hire a private investigator, and that I'm sure there isn't another woman in Ben's life. She clearly is unaccustomed to breakups in our peculiar genre.

"You can never be sure of that," she tells me.

"I'm pretty darn sure," I say. "Unless, per chance, he has already selected a vessel to carry his baby."

She gives me a long look that says, That's exactly what he has queued up . Then she licks her thumb and flips to a fresh page in her notebook. She tells me that, based on what I told her in our first meeting, our grounds for divorce will be "constructive abandonment." It is a term that makes me sad as much for its formal sound as for the actual meaning.

I nod as Nina becomes all hyped up about our a.s.sets, telling me I should go for the gold, ask for the moon. She gestures a lot, her thick, enamel bracelets sliding up and down her long, slender arm. I give her a blank stare, insisting that Ben and I don't have all that much to divide. "We've only been married three years. And we rent, remember?" I say, grateful that Ben and I never took the plunge into New York real estate.

"Okay. Okay. But what about cars? Furnishings? Rugs? Art? Crystal? Stock? Time-shares?" she says, her palms facing up. Her Botoxed face strains to frown but can't quite get there.

I shrug. "We have a '99 Honda Civic. It's a piece of junk."

She gives me an exasperated look that says I can do better.

"I'll work on it," I say.

"Good. Good," she says, glancing at her watch. "In my experience, you only regret asking for too little."

"Uh-huh," I say.

"So shoot me an e-mail with anything, anything at all that you can come up with. I'll attach a list of all a.s.sets in Schedule A to the Separation Agreement."

I have never thought of our "stuff" as a.s.sets. I never thought Ben and I would be dividing anything; I thought we'd always be about sharing everything. Still, I decide to take my homework a.s.signment seriously. I call my soon-to-be ex-husband and tell him I need to be at the apartment for a few hours that evening. Ben says fine, he has to work late anyway.

That evening, I walk through our apartment, poking through cabinets and drawers as I drink a bottle of wine and take notes on a sheet of paper. The whole exercise feels surreal, almost as if I'm seeing certain items for the first time. As I inspect all of our joint belongings, I realize with a mix of relief and pride that I want almost nothing. I try, but I just can't get myself too worked up about furniture, linens, and silver. I do linger briefly on our only expensive piece of art, a gorgeous Geoffrey Johnson cityscape in warm sepia tones. I love it and can't imagine not being able to look at it again, but Ben and I bought it together for our second anniversary, so I don't want that daily reminder.

For some reason, I focus on our CDs, music we acquired together, stuff we listened to during every range of mood and occasion. "Getting ready to go out" music. "Throwing a party" music. "Doing ch.o.r.es around the house" music. "Having s.e.x" music. "Setting the mood for s.e.x" music. "After s.e.x" music.

I know CDs aren't the sort of big-ticket items Nina has in mind as we're only talking a few hundred bucks for our entire collection but the thought of going out to replace the music we enjoyed together feels too painful to bear. Besides, I know how much our CDs mean to Ben, and part of me wants to spite him. I have no desire to punish him financially, but I want him to suffer emotionally. I want him to feel a ravenous void, and taking a crystal carafe isn't going to get the job done.

So I pour another gla.s.s of wine as I jot down some of our favorite artists James McMurtry, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Velvet Underground, Laura Cantrell, Van Morrison, Cowboy Junkies, Wilco, Tracy Chapman, and Dire Straits. Then, to reinforce my point, I take a black Sharpie and pen my initials on the CD covers. About halfway through the exercise, I catch myself using my married name Davenport and switch to my maiden initials, C.P. I tell myself that Parr, the name I've kept at work, sounds much better with Claudia. I've never been a fan of triple-syllable first names combined with triple-syllable last names. The wine starts to hit me around midnight, when I just give up, scribble through my list, and write "All CDs" at the top of the page.

The next day I call Nina and tell her I only want my personal property, all of our CDs, and my maiden name back. She groans into the phone, and says, "As your attorney, I feel it's my duty to tell you that I think you're making a mistake."

"This isn't about money It's about principle," I say.

"That's precisely why I want you to include more," Nina says. "For the principle of things. He's the one checking out of this marriage." Then she sighs and tells me to give it a little more thought, and in the meantime, she'll draft the Separation Agreement.

A few days later the papers arrive at my office. I read the pages carefully. They mostly consist of boilerplate language about such things as waivers of maintenance, tax returns, and debts and obligations of the parties. The only lines that really get me are in the beginning:

Whereas, as a result of certain disputes and irreconcilable differences between the parties, the parties have separated and are now living separate and apart, and they intend to live separate and apart from each other for the rest of their lives Whereas, there are no children in the marriage and none are expected.

I think, You can say that again . Then I call Ben and ask him to meet me for one last dinner so that we can review the agreement together. I think it's what we both need for closure. Closure is one of those words I've always hated, overused by melodramatic women. But I don't think it's melodramatic to use the term when your marriage is dissolving. When you need to see your husband one more time to come to terms with the fact that he's no longer going to be your husband. Although maybe, maybe , I'm just giving him one last chance to change his mind.

"Where should we meet?" I ask him.

I know that he will tell me that he doesn't care where we meet, that it's up to me.

Sure enough, he sighs into the phone. "You pick a spot, Claudia. It doesn't matter to me," he says. As if he has earned the right to be weary.

I want to be pa.s.sive-aggressive back, insist that he choose our final meeting place, but I decide that taking control is a pretty foolproof way to keep from losing control. I tell him I will think about it and get back to him. My voice is cold and detached.

"Okay. Just let me know," he says, and I must face the fact that if we were having a "try to sound as detached as possible" contest, he would have just beaten me by more than a hair.

For the next few hours, I look through virtually every entry in my Zagat , paging through the guide that once held the key to fun evenings out with Ben. There are one thousand nine hundred and thirty-one restaurant entries, and yet not a single venue seems to be an appropriate one to meet with your soon-to-be-ex-husband to discuss the division of your a.s.sets. I peruse the categories late dining, people-watching, power scenes, romantic places, special occasions, singles scenes . None seems right. In a city like New York, how could the good people at Zagat include categories like bathrooms to visit and overlook the ever-important places to break up ?

While I'm reviewing restaurants, Michael Brighton, a publicity manager, stops by to say h.e.l.lo. Michael and I graduated from college the same year, thirteen years ago, and both started working here the same day. He is one of my closest friends at work, and his matter-of-fact manner and wry wit make it easy to discuss my divorce. I can count on him not to give me too much sympathy.

"What's shakin', Claudia?" he asks, as he picks up my Magic 8 Ball from my bookshelf and shakes it. It is a gadget I've been avoiding lately, for obvious reasons.

"Not too much," I say.

He peers down at the ball and says, "d.a.m.n. My dry cleaner isn't going to get that stain off my suede jacket."

I laugh. "Why are your questions posed to the Eight Ball always so inane?"

"Because my life is inane. You know that," he says, running his hand over his clean-shaven head. Michael has the smoothest brown skin I've ever seen. He almost looks airbrushed. Ben has always said that Michael looks like Charles Barkley and I guess I can see the resemblance around the eyes and eyebrows, but Michael isn't nearly as bulky as Barkley, and his features are sharper.

"Right," I say sarcastically. Michael's life is anything but inane. Just last week, he accidentally sent an e-mail to the entire company about his a.s.sistant being incompetent.

"So anyway. Where are you with Amy d.i.c.kerson's novel? Is Time going to review it or what?" I ask.

"I'm getting there," he says, yawning. Michael is a total procrastinator, but can usually charm his way into getting any review for me. Everybody in the business loves him, and I'm always thrilled when he's covering one of my books. "No worries." He points to my Zagat . "What? Do you have a hot date already?"

"No," I say. "I'm trying to pick a place to meet Ben tonight."

"To discuss reconciliation?"

"No. To discuss the division of our a.s.sets."

"Hmm," he says. "How about Kittichai? I have a reservation I'd rather not use."

I raise my eyebrows. Long story.

"I have time."

"She's too needy."

"Ahh," I say, flipping to the Ks . "So, Kittichai. That's in the Thompson Hotel, right?"

"Yeah," he says. "I have a table for two at eight. It's yours if you want it."

"I've actually never been," I say. "And I don't think this is the night to be trying something new."

"So go to an old standby Gramercy Tavern? Aquavit? Balthazar?"

I shake my head. "Can't do those, either. Old standbys are imbued with too many memories. Good memories. Celebrations. It would be conflicting," I say. "I can't very well be sitting there telling Ben that I want our Calphalon pots, all the while thinking about our first anniversary or the night we got a little crazy in the back of a cab"

"You don't even cook. You really want the pots?" he asks.

"No. I don't really want anything."

Michael nods and then squints up at the ceiling as if he has something in his contacts. "Just curious on that back-of-a-cab thing I'm testing a theory did that happen before or after you guys got hitched?"

"Before," I say, pushing away the memory as I continue. "I think I have to aim for something in between trendy, new hotspot, and tried-and-true favorite. A place we've both been before, but a place with no particular connotation. A place with a decent vibe, but not too much gaiety," I say. "And I'm thinking low marks in service. I don't want a lot of interruptions or too much food and wine description."

Michael laughs.

I shoot him a look. "This isn't funny."

His smile fades and he says, "My bad. You're right, this isn't funny."

"Okay. It's a little bit funny," I say, thinking that maybe those people who crack jokes in the face of hardship are on to something.

He shakes the 8 Ball again and says, "Uh-oh."

"What?" I say.

"Never mind," he says. "I don't believe in this thing anyway."

The night of our final "date," I arrive at a random bistro in h.e.l.l's Kitchen (a neighborhood with which Ben and I have the fewest ties) ten minutes late but still before Ben. This annoys me because I have to have a drink at the bar, which makes the evening feel too much like a date, rather than the business transaction it is. I wonder if perhaps we should have met for lunch instead.

Ben saunters in after I've ordered my wine and taken my first few sips. He is wearing loose-fitting jeans and a new white shirt that makes his chest and arms look especially cut. Ben has one of those not-too-big, not-too-small, hard bodies that always looks perfect in clothes. And unfortunately for me now, even better without.

"Nice shirt," I say with a trace of sarcasm. I want him to know that I know that he's been shopping during our turmoil.

He gives me a defensive look and then mumbles something about picking a few things up at the Gap. Picturing Ben trying on casual clothes that he will surely be wearing on dates with blushing, fertile girls in their early twenties makes me almost hate him. This is actually a good, healthy thing, though, because hating him takes the sad edge off the night. I settle up at the bar, and we walk over to the maitre d's podium.

"He's here," I say, pointing at Ben.

She smiles and leads us to a small table in the very center of the dining area. I immediately target the table as the worst one in the restaurant. We will be surrounded on all sides. I don't antic.i.p.ate a scene. Nor do I expect tears. Ben and I are very controlled and feel the same way about drawing attention to ourselves. But still. A corner table would work so much better for our purposes. I glance at Ben, hoping he'll ask to switch. He almost always does. Even when we were at McDonald's and I'd pick our table, he'd ask if I wouldn't mind moving. It became almost a game. I'd antic.i.p.ate where he wanted to sit, and he'd find something problematic with it. A draft from air-conditioning, sunlight too direct in his eyes, a nasty spot of ketchup on his chair. Of course, Ben picks this night to debut his new shirt and become complacent with our seating.

"So. How is everything?" Ben asks me after the waitress hands us our menus and a wine list.

"Fine," I say.

"How's work?"

I tell him work is great and then, at his prodding, give him a few-sentence update on recent books I've been working on and some I'm trying to acquire. I know Ben is proud of all that I've accomplished at work, and I can't help sharing a few details with him. I wonder how long it will take to lose the urge to share my stories with him. "How's work going for you?" I say.

"It's okay," he says. "Same old."

"Your family?" I ask.

"They're fine. Good."

"Did you tell them yet?" I ask.

"Tell them what?"

"Gee, Ben, I don't know. Tell them about your new shirt."

"I didn't know which specific part of this you were referring to," he says.

"The whole thing? The general breaking up that's happening here?" I say, pointing back and forth in the s.p.a.ce between us.

"I told them we were having problems," he says.

"Did you tell them the nature of our problems?" I ask.

He nods.