I was nervous but I decided to go to the writing group. It was on a Monday morning at 10:00 at a café near the university. I drove into the city and parked nearby. When I entered, I walked in past several tables filled with what looked like a mix of students and writers. Some were alone, smoking and writing furiously in small journals. Other tables were occupied by two or three people reading quietly from sheets of paper that looked like the ones in my leather case; typed verses, some long and some just a couple of sentences long. It seemed casual to me. I looked around and immediately I recognized the poetry group. They were in the back of the café at a round table. There were only four of them. Three women and the boy from the bookstore, Henry Welch. As soon as he saw me he waved and motioned for me to join them. I felt conspicuous in my nice light wool skirt and ironed white shirt. I wore brown pumps. I was holding my leather case in my arms like it was a schoolbook. That was how I felt; like a new student walking into a classroom on the first day of school. The reflection of my engagement ring caught my eye; the large diamond and sapphires made me feel rich. I was rich. Without knowing anyone's attitude, I felt like a hypocrite. The group at the table looked so different from me. There was Henry who I knew was perfectly nice and open. There were two women who's chairs were positioned close to each other. One of the women was leaning over, reading from the other's papers. A third woman resembled me in a appearance. She looked my age and wore straight leg pants and a heavy wool sweater. Her hair was back in a headband and she was smoking. When I glanced at the table, I saw two ashtrays overflowing with cigarette buts, a couple still smoldering. The woman resembling me looked up at me when Henry waved; a moment later the other two also looked up.

"Eve!" over here, Henry said. I noticed his voice was more effeminate than I remembered. His hair was almost shoulder-lenght and combed to one side. He wore a checkered shirt, a thin tie loose around his collar. I walked over to the table and hesitated for a moment before taking a seat.

"Sit down," the woman my age said. She put her cigarette in the ashtray and held out her hand. "I'm Joan. Short story writer. Unhappy housewife."

I smiled and sat down. I scanned the other faces as Henry introduced me. "This is Nancy," Nancy had short blonde hair and a black pair of cat's eye glasses. She was younger than me, probably in her early 20s.

She smiled at me, "Nance." She said. She reached over the table and held her hand out. We shook hands; it seemed an awkward thing for me to be doing.

"It's nice to meet you," she said. I couldn't tell if she was judging my appearance. She immediately looked at the girl next to her.

Henry continued with the introductions. I tried to remember their names as I went along, "Henry. Joan. Nance."

The other woman seemed very masculine to me. Physique wise, she was petite but she also had a way about her that wasn't feminine at all. Her shoulder length hair was parted far to one side and fell over one eye. She wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She had, what looked to me, like a man's watch. She was very attractive but didn't accentuate any of her features with make up or even with female mannerisms. Her name was Kate. She looked a little younger than me too, maybe mid-twenties like Nance. It was clear right off that Nance and Kate were a couple. It also seemed apparent that Henry was gay. Then there was Joan. And, then there was me.

"This is Eve." Henry said, raising his hands in a 'ta da' fashion. "The poet I discovered at the bookstore!"

I felt like an idiot. I didn't want to be there; my heart was racing. A part of me felt like an impostor. A liar. Yet another part of me shared some of Jeff's snobbery. It wasn't completely conscious but I felt myself judging them. Who were these people? What were they doing here in a café in the middle of the morning? Don't they have families? Shouldn't the women be taking care of their homes?

"What kind of poetry do you write?" Kate asked and looked at me.

I felt myself turn flush. "I just started writing poetry actually. I mean just started. Less than a month ago. I don't' know what kind it is. Henry was being generous."

"No. Don't say it like that. It's great!" Joan chimed in. "I write short stories. Nance is a poet too."

"Don't you write poems too?" I asked Henry.

He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. He raised his hand to call over the waitress. "I write poetry and I'm starting to write stories too. I dabble."

Joan added, "Kate is the playwright of the group."
"That's very impressive." My words felt all wrong; I felt large and conspicuous.

The waitress came to the table and I ordered a coffee with cream and sugar. Once we were all settled, I lit a cigarette. Henry explained that they usually read each other's work and just talked about it. Whatever came up. Sometimes they talked about books or politics. The basic agreement between them e was to simply show up each week.

I nodded and smiled. "Ok," I said softly. "Would it be all right if I just listened this time?" I did have my leather case with a stack of poems I'd written but I'd never had anyone read them and the only ones I had to compare them to were the great poets so I had no gauge if mine were any good or not.

That morning I sat and drank coffee and listened to the others read their work. Kate had copies of a scene from her new play. There were enough characters for us all to read apart. I was having trouble following the story, mostly because I was so nervous keeping track of my lines. After we finished reading she put her hands over her face and shook her head for a moment. When she looked back up at us she smoothed her hair back with one hand. "That didn't make any Goddamned sense, did it?" It hadn't to me, but I didn't dare admit it. "It was supposed to be her last conversation with her mother. She doesn't know it yet. Her mother's a ghost but she's not fully awake so she thinks she's still a child."

Henry spoke up, "why don't we read it again?"

"No." Kate quickly collected the papers from us. She straightened them into a neat stack, stood up and carried them over to a garbage can where she proceeded to toss them in. She came back, sat down, lit a cigarette and smiled at us. "Who's next?"

Joan had written a short story about a housewife. The main character, a woman named Annie lived in two worlds: the life inside of her thoughts and the life with her husband. One scene, in particular, made me laugh; we all did. In it Annie's husband comes down to breakfast and she's served him eggs and bacon. Annie is the ultimate a housewife on the outside; but while her husband consumes his breakfast she is off to the side, smoking a cigarette and drinking a coffee with whiskey in it. She's watching him eat and she grows to find it so revolting that she doesn't know what to do. As readers, all we were getting were her inner thoughts about how grotesque, almost cannibalistic, this man was. On the outside she is serving him coffee in her bathrobe and yet he is a monster. As the scene moves on his body begins to change, he actually started becoming the creature she's imagining him to be.

When Joan finished reading, Nance put her cigarette in her mouth and held her hands up and clapped in a slow, quiet applause. Kate was smiling and nodding.

"I know it's a little Franz Kafka." Joan laughed. I didn't ask but I wondered if it was really based on her marriage or just some fiction that came out.

"I'm sure you can understand Eve." She laughed. "In fact you're probably the only one at the table who really gets it."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You're married aren't you? I saw the ring and..." She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit one. She took a deep drag and held the pack out offering me one. I accepted and as I removed one from the pack, I felt I had a delicacy to me a weakness almost. I felt frail and small, a feeling I didn't remember having before.

Henry lit a match and held it up for me. "Yes." I said, "I'm married."

The table grew silent. They were waiting for me to elaborate.

"Yes." I said and nodded again. I looked at Nance. She had an expectant expression. "I understand." I said and smiled. Then the tension dissipated and everyone began talking and laughing again. I didn't offer any more.

After the meeting, I walked back outside. I'd forgotten were right near downton Chicago. It was busy and loud. I was so elated and excited to have the completely new window on the world. I knew I was taking baby steps into my new life and I didn't know where it would take me. I'd never met a group of people like that in my entire life. Not in Sellwood, not in Bend. Certainly not with Jeff's intellectual friends. This new group, these writers, had a rebellious attitude. Their poems, stories and jokes had a cutting edge as if to mock all the rules and expectations of traditional life. I didn't exactly see myself as one of them, but being there and being accepted by them was wonderful. Although I hadn't read any of my own poetry to them, the group gave me a sense of legitimacy. Just having things I'd written and sitting there amongst them. I felt like I was a writer.

I was so excited and as I looked at the city scene around me I realized I had no one to share this with. Maybe Miriam but other than her, there was no friend that I could call or get together with. I imagined Joan, a housewife too. I imagined her at home, having cocktails with a neighbor and sharing her ideas and opinions. As I walked to the car I noticed a payphone on the corner. I had the impulse to call Jeff and see if he wanted to meet me for lunch. I wasn't that far from the museum and I could go over and if he had time, wait for him outside the art institute and then go somewhere. I felt so full of joy over my meeting and I thought maybe I could tell him about it. Meeting downtown was something Jeff and I never did. Usually our time together was at home and if it wasn't then we'd have some destination like a show or a gallery opening. My sphere was restricted to our home or events that involved his work and art life. I walked into the phone booth and put a dime in. I started to dial the museum but when I caught my warped reflection in the chrome finish of the telephone. For some reason, that stopped me.

That night Jeff came home for dinner and we all sat together. I'm sure it was a big shift for him to participate in such a middle-class family ritual. In the past, particularly in the beginning of our marriage, the children would eat early and be ushered away by their nanny. Our housekeeper would later prepare something for Jeff and me. I'd sit with him and we'd eat in a stiff formal fashion. Since the night at the like things had changed. IDuring those last months of our marriage, it was a completely different scenario. We all sat at the big table. Miriam and I prepared dinners and the children were not dressed in fancy clothes. Their hands and faces were clean and we did try to impress upon them the importance of manners—with limited success. Clara always sat up straight and asked politely when she wanted something "may I please have the salt?" Her affect was a little deliberate and I knew she was trying hard to match Jeff's family values, but for her it was not derived from malice, just a desire to be proper. The boys were completely different. I had to plan out different seating arrangements every night. If they were across from each other, they'd kick under the table. If they were next to each other, Charlie would do something like put a chewed up piece of meat on Jeffery's plate or Jeffery would put a little mashed potatoes on his hand and rub it on Charlie's arm. Clearly, sitting next to each other was not an option. It was almost worse when they weren't fighting. They would be laughing so hard that they were unable to eat or drink. Their little faces would be red with laughter and it would take little more than holding their fork a certain way to cause an eruption of uproarious laughter between them. Then, there was Miriam, who was no longer our maid. She now joined us for dinner every night.

The night after my writing group, t Jeff came home and Clara was setting the table. She had her long curly hair in barrettes and was dressed in a clean skirt and a crisp white shirt. She was arranging the place settings with precision. I was carrying out a chicken casserole. Jeff watched for a moment. I wondered if he felt like an anthropologist observing a primitive culture. He smiled at me but looked nervous.

Jeffrey and Charlie ran into the room and out again. Miriam, was carrying a pitcher of lemonade and she scolded them, "boys wash your face and hands right now!"

"Is it dinner time?" Jeff finally asked.

"Are you hungry?" I said. "We have chicken casserole."

He smiled, "I'm wondering if I walked into the wrong house. Perhaps I should go back out and come in again."

"This is your house" I said. "Why don't you put your things down and I'll fix you a drink?"

"I can do it." He said and put his coat on the back of the couch. He walked over and fixed a gin and tonic, "Do you want one?" he asked me. Then he did something I'd never expect, he offered Miriam a drink too.

The boys came and tried to sit near each other. "No. No you don't." I said.

"What is it?" Jeff asked, he was already seated next to Clara.

"You don't want to know. These two are a handful during dinner." I looked at the boys. "And you shouldn't be, at eight and six years old!"

"Why shouldn't we?" Charlie asked.

I looked at Jeff and shook my head. I wondered if he was in a state of shock. He just raised his eyebrows and looked around the table. When his eyes landed on Clara, she took his arm, "You'll get used to it Daddy. It's the burden we have to bear."

I looked at Miriam laughed. "This is quite a show, isn't it?"

Charlie sat a couple of seats from Jeffery. I think it was better that they were in a fighting mood rather than a silly one. It was so difficult to adjust to the changes. This wouldn't have gone on five minutes in the past. Jeff would have pulled Charlie and Jeffery to their rooms, demanded they learned some manners and practically throw them through the door before he'd slammed it. He'd raise his voice and tell me not to dare give them dinner. After a little while, when I carried it into each of their rooms, their faces would be mottled from crying. Of course I'd snuck their dinner in. Even at that neither of them had any appetite.

I stood and served everyone the chicken casserole. When I got to Jeff he looked up and watched me. I was standing close to him and when I leaned over him, I felt a wave of desire come over me. When I served Charlie he frowned at me, "I'll just eat bread and peas." I put a scoopful on his plate anyway.

"Why does he get to eat bread and peas?" Jeffery started up. I ignored both of them and so did Miriam and Jeff.

When Jeff picked up his fork and put food into his mouth, I thought of Joan's short story. I thought of how she saw her husband as a grotesque creature that slowly transformed into a hungry monster. I closed my eyes, I was going to laugh and I felt like one of the boys, it was hard to hold it in. I didn't think Jeff looked that way at all. He was proper, chewing his food slowly. One hand on his lap.

He looked up at me. "What is it?"

I shook my head. "I was thinking of something I read"

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"It was a short story."

"Which one?"

Charlie was mouthing something to Jeffery. I couldn't tell what it was but what ever it was, it was the same thing over and over. Jeffery was moving his lips too, making a face at Charlie.

"Boys," Clara started to correct.

"Clara, let me handle the boys." I didn't want her involved. She was already bossy enough with them as it was.

Jeff looked down for a moment. "I have to go back to the studio tonight," he said. "Right after dinner."

"All right." I nodded.

Miriam put her hand on Charlie's arm and shook her head and whispered something in his ear. He stopped misbehaving and didn't look at Jeffrey again for the rest of the meal. They both ate in silence.

Miriam told me later she'd threatened to take away his television program after dinner. Really, I think he was aware of Jeff's discomfort. I was too. It wasn't anger. It was a rejection of our lifestyle, or at least that's what I thought.

Jeff returned home late that night. I was already asleep in bed and despite his quiet entry in the room, I woke when he slid into bed next to me. I had my back to him and he moved closer and put his arm around my waist. I turned to him and looked at him. It was such a strange place between being married to him and preparing to separate from him for good. I touched his face and kissed him first on the cheek and then on the lips.

"Eve. I don't think I can do this anymore."

"What?"

"All of it."

"It's all right." I kissed him again.

"Eve. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to make love to you."

I didn't want that taken away. That was the last tether between us. I thought it would hold us and help us while we made the final decision. I moved away a little and whispered, "It's all right. I understand." I wasn't angry but I couldn't look at him. I felt embarrassed.

"Will you please look at me?"

I turned to him. I wasn't crying but I was sure he knew I was sad.

"Eve. You're being what I think is your true self. This part of it scares me. I can see how honest with me you are. I'm not honest with you. For the first time I feel like I'm betraying you."

"That doesn't matter anymore."

"It's worse this way. Why do you want to--?"

I kissed him. I didn't know why I did, I knew he wanted something else. He kept staring into my eyes.

"I met with some poets today." I said to him.

He nodded. "You did?" He had surrendered to the change in me, I could tell.

"Yes. It was downtown, not far from the Art Institute. I went to a payphone to call you. I was so happy. I was going to ask you to meet me and go for coffee or lunch."

"I would have liked that. Why didn't you?"

"You're my only friend right now."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I kept you away from your friends."

"They weren't my friends."

"I wish you had called me."

I kissed him again. I could see the breath rise in his chest. He waited a moment. Then he leaned into me and kissed me passionately.

"Oh Eve." He whispered. To me it was urgent. I felt he needed me too. He moved on top of me and ran his hands through my hair. He held my face in his hands. "God damn it Eve." He said, then he made love to me.