On the night of my divorce

I tried to focus on the shot glass of tequila on the bar top in front of me, but somehow, my vision blurred in and out. I scoffed, knowing it was the numerous shots I'd already consumed that were affecting my vision. I rattled my wedding ring against the glass when tears rimmed my eyes—five years of my life ended abruptly with the finalized word Divorced. Five years of a life I thought we were building together. I'd always hated the gaudy ring. Ben's mother refused to give over his grandmother's ring because she thought he was making a mistake marrying me. I guess the woman was right.

The family ring debate never bothered me much until Ben proposed with this god-awful thing. It constantly got stuck on everything, and I swear it signaled a plane or two with the glare. But Ben had picked it himself, and at the time, I thought it showed how much he loved me. Now, I was wondering why I still had it on my finger. Was I still hoping that the man I'd been so sure I'd spend the rest of my life with would suddenly change his mind and we would still be married? No, that wasn't it. It had been years since I realized I wasn't truly in love with Ben. Was it a whirlwind romance my sister drools over in books and movies? No, I had done the safe thing. I'd built our relationship on respect, understanding, and gradual love. Ben and I dated for six months, married at a year, and kept our life together with dates and financial responsibility. I followed the road map to a successful marriage and life to a T.

I downed the shot before me, then yanked the tacky ring off my finger. I slammed it on the counter and tipped the glass over it. The irony of my wedding ring trapped under a glass enclosure as a metaphor for my marriage was not lost on me. I frowned at how sad and pathetic my marriage had been.

"One more!" I called out to the bartender, only to find the bar empty. I looked around the rest of the place to find it completely deserted. The bar had been an impulse decision, but I felt at home in the sporty decor and memorabilia on the walls. Something about tattered old vinyl booths and leather cushions around the worn oak bar triggered memories of my childhood and father. A bar just like this one was where my love of sports was planted. Years later, it was a place filled to the brim with people cheering, sparking my passion for hockey. And it was a bar top similar to the one my father broke his cancer secret, saying goodbye the only way he could. In my struggle to get away from the courthouse, it seemed fitting that I ended my marriage the same way as every other big event in my life: at a tacky sports-filled dive bar.

A stray tear rolled down my cheek. I swiped it away, and then, in a very unladylike fashion, my very southern mother would faint as I sniffled back all my grief in one loud gurgled inhale through my nose, swallowing down all the self-pity, regret, and anger. Drinking oneself into a stupor on a Wednesday night might not have been the best idea. I had only needed enough to take the edge off, yet the image of the relieved smile my husband--now ex-husband-- wore when the judge said, "You are officially divorced." kept the shots pouring down my throat. I spun on the stool a few times to chase away the drunken boredom, glancing at various sports displayed on the different-sized TVs. I wished someone would show up with more booze, but no one appeared behind the bar. With an annoyed grunt, I clumsily made my way behind the bar. I began to attempt to read the labels, but after a few moments of blurry words, I gave up and looked at the label design and bottle shape. I crouched lower to find the bottle the guy had pulled out.