The Divorced Man

The divorced man, recovering from the social inadequacy that was a product of his recently dissolved marriage, attended an event for single lovers of literature at an Upper West Side bookstore. The gathering, organized by the latest dating app, took place in a reserved section of the shop’s second floor, in a wide row splitting memoir from fiction, where the hosts from the hot-or-not app had set up tables with finger foods and cheap wine.

First to arrive, the divorced man poured himself a plastic cup of dry white to avoid tooth stains and browsed the Zs on the last fiction shelf. He picked out a Chilean writer he’d been meaning to read and the fluorescent light reflecting off the paperback’s glossy cover made him uneasy. The place was too damn bright, surely enough to illuminate the asymmetrical tendencies of his face: the tip of a slender nose leaning left, a right ear higher than the other on the side of his head, and stubble growing only on one cheek he’d forgotten to shave before his morning commute. He knew, though, this was his best shot at landing a date in this isolating city, this island that imposed its identity on and induced a debilitating loneliness in the most unsuspecting residents.

Even in a dimly lit Brooklyn dive bar where his physical flaws wouldn’t be accentuated, the divorced man wouldn't know what to say to a cute girl confident enough to catch his attention with her fuck-me eyes. They couldn’t be meant for him—maybe she was squinting?

It was excruciatingly difficult for the divorced man to reconcile his physical desires with his decision to vacate that oath-sworn relationship. After all, a divorced body was nothing else but neglected and in dire need of affection.

The divorced man hadn’t been inside a woman in months, not since he’d tried to outrun the heartbreak of his failed union by fleeing the nation’s capital. Best-case scenario: literary conversation would be the sexual catalyst he needed it to be. At the very least, he wanted simply to feel noticed. To feel a flirtatious hand squeeze his arm, hear the sincerity of a woman’s laugh at his sorry jokes.

He read and re-read the book’s first page, but the arrival of other dating-app users prevented him from retaining any of the minimalist prose. He was facing the staircase, feigning interest in the book and nonchalance toward the women, heartbeat accelerating each time heels clicked on the hollow steps.

When men reached the top stair they would nod at the divorced man, not in solidarity, but as if to communicate their status as competitors. We are here for the same reason, their looks said, therefore we cannot be friends. They would puff out their chests and strut over to a single lady, cups filled and ready for a practiced toast to their favorite dead white writers. It looked effortless, like they picked up more women than books at these events, an easy lay for every hardcover lining the walls of their hip lofts.

The divorced man could hardly afford to fill his one flimsy bookcase, let alone the drafty room he rented from his Dominican landlady-slash-roommate in Washington Heights. She was a sweet woman with kids his age and had been married once too, but he hadn’t confided in her—or in anyone else—the emotional pain of losing his best friend and the person in the world he most loved.

The room was crowding and his wine drying up, so the divorced man poured himself another cup at the table, where a woman he hadn’t seen asked his name. She was wearing flats and thick-rimmed glasses, blouse tucked into a skirt that flowed from her hips to her ankles, a pen holding her dark hair in place.

Underneath HI! MY NAME IS, the woman wrote the divorced man’s name in cursive with a smiley face and pasted the tag on his shirt, smoothing it out over his chest. They made small talk while standing next to shelves of writers who disclosed every dirty detail of their lives; however, he had no intention of dropping the D word to a woman who lived in a city where marrying as young as he had was taboo.

While the woman shared tales of learning to hang with New Yorkers, the divorced man noticed how she talked with her hands and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and curled her lips when she laughed. He wanted to take her in an unoccupied aisle of the shop, between the pages of love stories, to lift the back of her skirt and pull aside her panties.

Upon her request, he recounted silly adventures like getting lost in Queens, ending up in the Bronx after falling asleep on the express train, and having a bagel so good he chewed it slowly to prolong the deliciousness. The woman took hold of his bicep, a look of surprise on her geometrically proportionate face, when she realized she’d had the same artisan lox bagel with a thick layer of cream cheese at the same Park Slope deli and had also eaten it slowly.

Two refills later and buzzed, they found themselves half-naked in the divorced man’s apartment, on the bed he’d inherited from the previous tenant, their bodies entwined beneath the covers.

                              —What’s wrong? the woman said.

She’d stopped kissing him.

                             —It’s been a while.

                             —Then this shouldn’t be a problem.

                             —I guess you have a point.

                             —Did I do something wrong?

                             —No! No, you’re perfect.

He lay beside her and slipped his hands under his head and closed his eyes and listened for a moment to the honks of Broadway taxis filtering in with the fall breeze through the open window.

                             —But you’re not my wife, the divorced man said.


Written by: Eric Zurita
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Losing It

Because your mother raised you Baptist, buy into your pastor's definition of fate. Believe in the existence of a soul mate and search for her. It’s never too early to find “The One.”

For guidance on this journey maintain perfect attendance at the Sex-Ed classes your church offers. The boys who share your curiosity about how and when God wants you to have intercourse will raise their hands and ask all the questions fumbling in your mind.

“So, when I get married I can do anything I want with my wife?” one will ask, as you imagine all the dirty things you’ve witnessed on late night web-browsing sprees.

“With your wife? Sure,” the pastor will guarantee despite the stunned look on his face.

When another kid asks him if he ever masturbated, he’ll end the class with a prayer begging the Holy Trinity for assistance.

                                                                                                   ***

At sixteen pursue a sweet Christian girl in your classes who’s impressed by your purity ring. She happens to be half Cuban, even though the only traits she inherits from her immigrant mother are her abilities to maintain a metabolism that sends food straight to her ass and to speak so fast that you have trouble keeping up with the words departing from her virgin lips.

Convince yourself you’ll end up with a Latina because the more time you spend swooning over the white girls at school, the less action you’ll get. God knows you’ll never make enough money to impress their fathers.

Develop a friendship before professing your love to her. That way you’ll know what songs to spend hours learning when you pick up the guitar. And she’ll appreciate that you sing her the one she likes to belt out of her window while driving around town on summer nights. Remain patient through the months she spends deciding if she’ll reciprocate your feelings.

During Youth Group discussions, when she defends the biblical condemnation of committing suicide, nod your head in agreement despite thinking life can be fucking depressing. Don’t mention that your father’s alcoholism looks a lot like someone ending his life “before God intends to.”

Ignore the invitations from your closest friends to party at the beach. To get drunk off light beer, get high on cheap weed, and roll around in the sand with girls who have daddy issues.

Instead, write your prudent girlfriend flattering lyrics accompanied by your guitar. Write her four-page letters explaining why you can’t breathe as easily now, because loving her has enlarged your heart so much that there’s hardly any room for your lungs. Or some corny shit like that.

Relish every opportunity to caress her round, soccer-toned ass. After your hand slips underneath her bra to grip her breast, her nipple poking the center of your palm, she’ll never allow you to do so again. Settle for dry-humping on your bed, the TV volume turned up so your mom can’t hear. One day the girl will mention that the friction between your jean-covered privates feels wrong. Because your religion has programmed you to associate pleasure with guilt.

That’ll be the extent of your sexual relationship for the three and a half years you spend admiring the virtue of her intentions.

                                                                                                   ***

In college, the two-hour drive between you will provide the space she needs to grow closer to God and for you to question whether He ever existed.

The Real Estate market will crash. She’ll know you transferred schools to help your parents so they don’t lose the house that represents an inkling of success after being uprooted from your homeland. But they’ll lose it, and she won’t call to ask how you’re doing.

When she does, she’ll say, “I don’t think we’re meant to be together.”

Realize she never loved you. Next time, listen to your mother, who foretold your heartbreak as if she were a prophet.

Go to your best friend’s house and drink your first beer, toasting the girl who wasted too much of your time. To hell with her and the morals she instilled in you.

                                                                                                   ***

Hang out with a good friend from high school who still talks to your ex. Lay a blanket at your favorite beach spot and drink a few brews to build courage. Tell her you always thought she was beautiful and kiss her when she tackles you onto the dunes.

You’ll drink too much on your twentieth birthday and almost hook up with the cute Colombian girl crushing on you. But your conscience will tell you you’re not ready. Her incessant texts after the party, outlining your future together, will prove it would’ve been a mistake.

At twenty-one ask out the cubanita who frequented the Spanish service at your church years ago. After a few dates she’ll sneak you into her house for foreplay, and you’ll wonder if she took that Sex-Ed class with the pastor’s wife.

Attend a drunkfest at your buddy’s pool. Your cubanita, who couldn’t look more like a white girl with her curly blond locks and icy blue eyes, will seduce you at the party and lead you to her car. Apologize when you leave her unsatisfied. She’ll say, “It’s okay,” and kiss you on the cheek before driving away.

Don’t think about your ex, who’s saving herself for marriage and expecting the same from her devout future husband—thereby forbidding your reconciliation. Don’t wonder if sex is the final Right of Passage to becoming a man. A man she would describe as ungodly.

Drown your regret in your father’s firewater. You’ll be unable to decipher what’s making you sick, if it’s the rum or the realization that you lost your virginity to a girl you’ll never love.

Written by: Eric Zurita
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe