Heorot Hall
by Sara Cappell Thomason

In the final year of our marriage, I was prone to starting conversations with Kelly on topics he knew nothing about. Usually, it was something I had just read in The New Yorker. I’d bring up the artist Ai Weiwei for instance, his precarious status as a Chinese dissident, and when Kelly just nodded, said interesting, but had nothing to add, I would sigh, sometimes even act exasperated, as if I was basically all alone on Earth because he could not keep up with high culture. In reality, he was getting up every day at 5am to go to the gym before heading to the office, while I slept in and hung out at Starbucks.