And so I counted, silently, to myself, including not only Donald’s references but my own as well. Like the ones I just made:

25,501.
25,502.
25,503.
Her.
Her.
Her.

4

I wish I could say that the early references to Adrienne (twenty through, say, fifty) were the most difficult, and that after those, all subsequent references (fifty-one through twenty-thousand-plus) barely registered and were painless, mere annoyance. But this was not the case.

And why would it be?

Ask the Chinese the theory behind their most beloved form of torture: One drop of water becomes two drops become ten drops become ten thousand drops (or, in my case, twenty thousand drops). Unless you are a follower of Mother Teresa, or Mahatma Gandhi, or the Dalai Lama, and thus truly humanitarian, pacificistic, spiritual—and, on some very real level (let’s call a spade a spade here) dead—you do not become inured to unrelenting annoyances, aggravations, indignities.

You become increasingly sensitive to them. Obsessed by them. As I did.

Adrienne was my Chinese water torture.

She was the incessant dripping; the unrelenting pelting; my ever-present tormentor. Drop, by drop, by drop; phone call, by phone call, by phone call.

Examples (shortly after that first fateful call telling us of her intentions to move and thus, ruin my life; listened in on from the upstairs extension in my office):

1. “You live in the best neighborhood—Cleveland Park— that’s the only area I’m interested in. Is there anything for sale on your street?”

(Note to self: Cruise the neighborhood first thing in the morning; search and destroy all “For Sale” signs posted.)

2. “I’m not going to know a soul in town, except for you and a few people at the museum (the National Gallery; she was to be the new Director of Special Programs, whatever that meant), so I’m going to have to start meeting people, even though, right now, I don’t feel up to it. It’s just a difficult time for me. I know this is the right move—especially now that Francesco and I are completely finished. But I’ve been feeling very, you know, vulnerable lately. And fragile.”

3. “Speaking of vulnerable and fragile—how has Lucy been doing since you started her on Prozac?”

Lucy. The dog. That fucking dog. Symbol of the past—their shared life; excuse for the present and future—visitation rights, she was my eerily human nonhuman nemesis.

Insinuating herself back into Donald’s life, Adrienne thereby insinuated herself into mine, and as a result, Donald and I were, on the subject of her, little by little, at each other’s throats.

“Gee, she calls a lot.”

He blinked. “You think?”

“Do I think? Of course I think. She’s called twice this week already. And it’s only Tuesday.”

He gesticulated, explicated, mitigated. “She always gets this way when she’s anxious. She’s scared about the move, and she’s scared about being on her own again after the breakup, and she’s just trying to connect with someone to reduce her anxiety.”

“She’s trying to connect with you, Donald, her ex-boyfriend.”