This is me, Douglas Haversham. Being me. Being the me I became when Zennie and I divorced.
There was another Douglas Haversham, a Dougie, who cared passionately about everything and everyone. A Dougie who fell in love and married at the age of twenty.
There was once a Dougie who married, Zennie; Zenobia Cahill; who was, on paper, eight months younger than Dougie.
When it came to adulthood, to maturity, I’d say, we were both about fourteen, far too young for marriage. But we married any way.
We married and had nothing and nowhere. After bouncing around for a few crazy months, sort of lived on my Uncle Jackie’s boat. It was sort of a cabin cruiser with a space below deck which had a bunk, a kitchen area, a toilet, a bit of a living room.
Although I loved it, Zennie claimed to get sea sick, although we were docked, so we only lived there about a week. Some how we grabbed jobs and rented a studio apartment.
We were young, we were in love, and we were happy.
For a short time, we were happy.