Under oath, I am bending the questions as they leave the judge's lips, rationalizing the lies I'm about to tell. Looking off into the distance, she is asking whether the marriage has become insupportable with no hope of reconciliation, etc., etc.

"Yes, Your Honor," I whisper. I'm trying to speak loudly enough to appear confident, but not loud enough to be heard by the rows of people seated behind me. The uncontested docket is a grab bag of court cases, and most of the people behind me aren't here for divorces. The ones in suits come up when the names of corporations are called to be handed their documents by the judge with no swearing-in and no more than a sentence exchanged. The few wide-eyed soon-to-be-ex-couples go first to the reference attorney and then come to the judge with the gait of people exiting a burning building without pulling the alarm in order to ensure they make it out first and alive. There are two or three other petitioners/wives. I notice that there are no unaccompanied petitioners/husbands. The husbands are escorted by wives' attorneys and wear wry faces.

The courtroom feels like you're floating in space. Beyond the lattice on the ancient windows, the sky is perfectly blue, unobscured here at the pinnacle of downtown. You can see where the drop ceiling cuts off the long stems of the ancient ceiling fans. It's as if they are holding us aloft, here in the space of an endless inhalation, with nowhere to fall except down the marble hallway to the county clerk's office and into the unknown. This is the courtroom of Yes. You see that after fifteen minutes here, watching case after case signed off on by the judge, petitioner's assertions taken at face value every time.

The judge sits beyond the edge of the drop ceiling. Above her, the height of the room soars back up to fourteen feet. When she called my name, I stepped over the threshold and the only choices now are lie or try to go back. Though I've thought over the past few days of changing my mind and calling it off, I know that if I give voice to a single doubt, I'll end up regretting it. Therefore, I do what I intended all along, I perjure myself.

I exit the courtroom fighting tears. I'm not sad to be unmarried, but vowing that we have no plans to "get back together," as Her Honor put it, shook me up. I look down. The file clerk is jovial and friendly until he has to ask me three times how many copies I want and I meet his eyes. More softly, he asks again. "None," I say. It's enough that the evidence of this betrayal will be typed up and entered into public record. Why the fuck would I want to hold it in my hand?

"How did it go?" my ex-husband asks over the phone.

"It's done," I reply.

He picks me up outside the courthouse and I squeeze his hand. "Thanks for being in contempt of court with me."