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A secret rehearsal involves playing women as instruments.

Since I didn't get a response back, I had to figure the conversation and our relationship was over.

Monday I got a hold of an attorney recommended by a divorced friend. His attorney got the shit kicked out of him by his ex-wife's attorney, so that's who he recommended to me when I called Sunday for his opinion. Thanks to the generosity of my boss, I was able to meet Janna Wilhelm on Thursday of that week, and my impression of her was that I wouldn't want to cross her.

I live in an at-fault divorce state, so I was able to ask for the moon when I filed for divorce on the grounds of infidelity. And my shark was more than up to the challenge. I wound up with the house and 75 percent of the marital assets. Traci tried to argue that she wasn't making the money she made when we were married, but Ms. Wilhelm correctly pointed out to the court that Traci gave up her job to move to California, and didn't deserve to have me bail her out for a bad financial decision.

Despite the fact that Traci fought the divorce, it still only took me six months to get free. Then came the real hard part: overcoming the nagging doubts that I didn't cut it as a husband. I mean, I thought Traci and I had a great marriage, and it took only two days for that to fall apart. TWO FUCKING DAYS!

While the divorce was in progress, I didn't have much of a social life. I mostly stayed home, and when I ventured out, I certainly wasn't in the mood for female companionship. But even after the divorce was final, I just didn't have the heart to be looking for companionship. Without a doubt, I was a broken man, and even I could figure that one out, so I looked up a good therapist. Turns out she was manning the bar at a place called Chuck's, a small hole-in-the-wall place that featured hard rock, high-end liquor and a clientele that seemed to be moving up in the world and was more than willing to have new fish to fry with their wise-ass comments.
Adele could put ice in a glass of whiskey with the best of them, kept the bar rail lively and could handle a loudmouth drunk with ease. She also knew that everyone had a story, and she felt it was her job to hear them all. I had been in the place about three or four times, usually sitting at a table by myself in the back, when Adele figured it was my turn to tell her my story. She had one of her servers tell me that I was requested at the bar, and when I started to pass on the invitation, the waitress said that it wasn't a request, it was a command, and if I knew what was good for me I'd go sit at the far end of the bar, in "Adele's office."

So I grabbed my Crown Royal Black and like a good sheep I headed over to where I was told to go. Adele sauntered over a couple of minutes later, introduced herself although it wasn't necessary, and asked for my name. Then she pointed at the ring indent on my left hand and asked how long I'd been divorced, and how many years was I married.

I was impressed at her immediate perception, and within minutes I was telling her about the end of my marriage and life since. And I was doing it for $10 a shot, instead of $100 an hour.

Adele was about my age, with the shoulders of a former swimmer and the arms of a female weightlifter. She had two-tone brown and blonde hair that she normally wore down on her shoulders, and she wore - and needed - very little makeup. Kind of a tomboyish, big sister character in a package that was about 5-7, 120 pounds. She also didn't mince words nor beat around the bush, and she told me my lone wolf act in the back of the bar had loser written all over it.

So I moved my act up to the front of the bar when I was there, and I started to join in on the bantering.

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