José, the Spaniard was visiting me
for work. But we were friends as well.
“I’ve divorced my wife,” he says.
I stop the car.
I look at him with a stern look.
Couldn’t you work it out and maybe
We get out, enter the restaurant and order
steaks and red wine.
We talk about work, the ceramic factories
that are closing down,
the problems with unemployment in Spain,
his two boys
but not the wife.
At the end of the night, when I’m
driving him back to his hotel,
“I caught her two years ago and only last
week the divorce papers came in,” he says.
He looks at me looking
forlorn and says
“Forgiveness has two parts;
one is for me to let go of my pain
I’ve done that.
The other is for her to do the work
and show me how to trust her again
She didn’t do that.”
He slams the door of my car before
I can say anything.