As a child, I thought couples who “separated” were elegant, elevated. the crème de la crème of failed families. The word tastes different, lighter than the mud-thick “divorced,” loftier than the prole-ish “broken up.” I imagined these people lived on the Upper East Side and read the Times every day, the archetype behind William Holden and Beatrice Straight’s crumbling marriage in Network.
I’m going through a separation now. There’s nothing light about. Nothing basic. Even though it’s been amicable, swirling pains and sudden, shrieking loneliness can come at any time; their absence hangs heavier in the air than the moments they manifest.