Division of Property

***

I remember the only fight I had with my friend Rhonda. She had (again) brought her extensive collection of Barbie stuff to my house, which was (still) quite seriously Barbie deficient. I elected to be Ken (again) for the simple reason that he didn't have to change clothes nearly as often as Barbie did. The clothes changing could be excruciating, you know. But I was bored. Every. Time. I didn't mean to be, honest. It just happened. Rhonda was angry. She began throwing the toys and clothes and accessories back into the immense bag, and puffing her cheeks like she does when she's mad, so I spoke. Using what I hoped was my most conciliatory tone, I offered to loan her some of my books in exchange for keeping a few of the dolls. Maybe, I theorized, if I spent a few days with them I'd learn to play with them better.

***

He gets the phone system, we'll take the server. He keeps the interior improvements, we get the furnishings. It goes on and on, the postal metering system, the copier/fax machine, work tables, client files, even the toys in the children's area of the waiting room.

***

Ken was tragically decapitated a few days later in a freak diving accident, involving a stainless steel mixing-bowl swimming pool and a leap from the kitchen counter. And there are several books I hunt (still) at each used bookstore I find.

***

No matter who gets what or which things stay or go, what you will remember is how it hurt.

***