"I've taken off my wedding ring."

The cell phone connection to the West Coast is a little choppy, it's early in the morning out there, even for her, and I'm just not completely sure I've heard her correctly. She said it so matter-of-factly and I cannot tell with the sleepiness in her voice and the bad reception whether she is hiding any of the feelings I might expect to accompany such a statement: exhilaration, anticipation, wistfulness (she doesn't do guilt), regret.

She has been living alone for months now, with her parents, debating every day whether to return home or strike out on her own. Last week she suddenly decided to tack a few days on to a business trip, to travel by herself, to see the sites of the Pacific Northwest and, she added, maybe just to tease me, or maybe not, "to pick up strange men and fuck my brains out."

I want to ask her how she felt taking the ring off, but it seems at that second too personal, too close for a conversation that must end in a minute when I arrive at work for a meeting, so I go the other possible direction and ask "Any strange men seem interested yet?"

"Honey, you wouldn't believe it."

"Yes I would. I keep telling you you're beautiful and desirable. I'd believe anything."

"Thank you sweety. Now do you want to hear about it or not?"

"Yes. Go on."

She continues, all in a rush, the words running together in my mind: "I walked into the car rental place at the airport when I got here and the first man I talked to was this tall dark gorgeous Spanish guy behind the counter he looked in my eyes and at my breasts and of course I wasn't wearing a bra and my nipples were poking out under the sweater and at my hand and you can see that I just took the ring off because my finger is still all puffy and then he looked back into my eyes and he asked me in this incredibly smooth voice with a beautiful Spanish accent if I was alone and he asked me if I was here for business or pleasure and I said both and he smiled like he wanted me real bad and said he hoped I found it."

"And?"

"And I think I want to start with him!"

For a second there is the pang of jealousy, the ache of missing her, the desire to be there with her, but it passes, and I respond appropriately: "You are such an awesome slut. I love you. Have fun." I tell her in all honesty, for I am thrilled and deeply happy for her and for her new-found freedom.

I am not like her husband.