Wasn’t she the perfect woman? She knew how to cook and clean, to iron and keep a house tidy. She knew a lot about proper and sane food, was great with finances, and never messed up the washing. The fridge was always filled, as were the closets. The bathrooms were clean, the kitchen too. She knew how to fuck – giving and taking, without too many limits. She knew how to drive a car, was good with kids, was intelligent enough to hold conversations about politics, religions, spirituality, but also about music and movies and books. She liked quiet nights in, but also going out and socializing. She was financially independent because she had a job that paid the bills, knew how to schedule and organise her days that everyone but her was cared for. She had a unique sense of humour but could not tell any jokes. She was clumsy sometimes but hated to give up control. At the same time, she was wishing for someone to take care of her, calm her down, and tell her what to do. She was not the most beautiful woman, and her mind often played tricks on her, but she was passionate and supportive, and loyal. Her hair was untamable, but she laughed it off. She was not the nagging kind but needed lots of time for herself. She was not jealous – or didn’t show it. She sang all the time and her journal was a trusted companion anywhere she went. She was enough of a mystery that she did not share her inner turmoil with her partner. But she had no secrets either. While kneading dough, she thought about all this and it led to another thought: if all this was true; why was she lonely and alone? Wasn’t she marriage material? And why was she getting a divorce? She sighed, pushed every thought aside, and began pushing olives into the focaccia dough, all the while singing along to U2’s with or without you.

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