I went back to the office and wasted an entire workday staring at the pictures on the wall. By late in the afternoon, I’d imagined myself in each of the pictures wearing prison orange. It was just the sort of mood to be in when having dinner with an ex-wife. It had been more than a year since our divorce, and title to the Cape house was still in “Paul and Katherine Forté, husband and wife as tenants by the entirety,” which says a lot about how ambivalent our break-up was. I’d gotten a sweet offer for the place, and needed to get Kate’s signature on the purchase and sale agreement, so we were meeting for some northern Italian at Al Forno in Federal Hill.
She looked fabulous, as usual, and despite both of our efforts to keep it cheery, it was a pretty sad date. She signed the P
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