The folders on the table were in two piles. One was larger and was only things related to my case. The other was a single manila folder with a small packet inside, fastened together with a large butterfly paperclip. A pen rested on top of it. They were the divorce papers, or the first set, to be accurate. Joanne – or her lawyer, but I think Joanne – had all the places I had to sign marked with little colored tabs. I leaned over them for almost five minutes, thinking of how it had come to that point, and whether or not I wanted to sign them. I could refuse and make the process take longer, making the whole thing uglier for Joanne. Or, I could just sign them and avoid delaying the inevitable.
I hurriedly dashed my signature a few times across the pages, splashing some very final ink on some much loathed lines. Even with that, divorces take months too long.