The big news about Roger’s young protegée is this: She’s writing a tell-all book about her escapades as a coed hooker. And there’s going to be a fat chapter on Roger, who, rumor has it, is described as a “saggy, sour-assed, washed-up hack writer.” I’ve slowly started telling people about my divorce. The reaction has been generally supportive. It’s an amazing experience, actually—all these people I barely know confessing that they never liked Roger in the first place. The widow who lives at the end of the cul-de-sac approached me as I was pulling the trash cans to the curb. I froze in fear when I saw her. I thought she was going to yell at me about my trash cans, loitering at the curb like a couple of grungy hobos long after everyone else on the block has stowed theirs neatly and out of sight. “I just want you to know that I’m pulling for you. I never liked him, you know.” She squeezed my arm and smiled benevolently. “You’re better off without him, dear.”
