My cell phone buzzed, playing a snippet of Ani DiFranco’s Adam and Eve. “Just don’t treat me like I am/something that’s happened to you,” I sang along.

James again. Third time this week. Much easier to ignore through the phone.

Boston is a marvel: a thriving, metropolitan area squeezed into fewer than 49 square miles, with something for everyone – a clash of cultural foods, several dozen museums, even more colleges, parks for quiet meditation or pick-up sport games, skyscrapers next to churches, rock concerts and street musicians, expansive theatrical productions and low-key performances in the park.

I wondered if the expansive category list could include a bereavement group for former adulteresses. Mine was whole-hearted, unabashed love. I thought it’d been reciprocated until his other life smacked me in the face.

The phone was too expensive to damage, so I threw it into the sofa, watching it bounce. “I’m not your ‘mangy little whore’, I yelled, “not anymore.”

Only mildly satisfying.