We went to breakfast together like a couple of old friends right after the judge un-pronounced us man and wife.

I pasted on my special you-have-no-idea-what-I’m-feeling-inside-and-I’m-not-going-to-let-you-in smile and ate eggs, over-easy, hash-browns and rye toast, making so-very-familiar small-talk and pushing each bite down the not-so-very-obliging esophagus while I squashed my heart to fit it inside the little hole in the brick that is my chest.

I will not cry. Not in front of my little girl. I will not think about it. I do not have the luxury of listening to Dark Side of the Moon at blasting volume. To feel the pain. To let it engulf me. I must not feel yet. Not yet.

Maybe when she falls asleep. Or maybe on the weekend. I might be able to release the pain, watch it crush the brick before I have a chance to save my heart.

Or maybe not for a very, very long time.