I was sipping wine on the balcony of my apartment in Santa Monica with my soon-to-be ex-husband, our son fast asleep in the next room. “It feels like the Caribbean out here,” my almost-ex said. “I figured out why. That huge palm tree is making rustling sounds like in the Caribbean.”
“You’re right,” I said looking up at the fat palm across the street, rising over the buildings, taller than our townhouse back in Hoboken, New Jersey. We’d recently moved to California together, apart—after splitting up—and both still found ourselves dazzled by the splendor of our new environment. We’d been separated for two years by that point, but hadn’t yet made it legal. “I think we should get divorced in the Dominican Republic,” my almost-ex continued perhaps recalling our past tropical idylls.“It has such a great history.”
