'Til Death Do Us Part

Of David Rossi's three marriages, the first one lasted the longest. On paper, he and Donna were a great couple: both Italian, New Yorkers (him from Brooklyn, her from Long Island), from traditional families. They were both accounting majors at CUNY, and when they added up their common denominators, marriage made sense. They were together most of the time anyway, they'd have freedom from their families and not have to worry about flaky roommates, and they could help each other study.

Graduation two years later was when the roads started to diverge. Donna found a good entry-level job with a major investment house. Dave surprised everyone when he was hired by the FBI. His family had been planning for him to join the payroll department of Uncle Tony's dry cleaning business (eight stores in the greater metropolitan area), but Donna stood by him. She had visions of him being Elliot Ness.

Rossi wasn't on a power trip. He felt comfortable in the starched-white-shirt environment of the Bureau. He was one square among many, and his methodical nature made investigation something he could see himself doing for the rest of his life without ever being bored--the same could not be said for a career in payroll.

Little by little, Donna spent more time at the office, and he spent more time away from home--in the field, going back and forth to Quantico--although he was still technically based in New York. The Sunday ritual of bagels and coffee became uneasy; there was too much privileged info on both sides of the divide. Her Fortune 500 clients and his Top Ten Most Wanted killers stalked their living room, and pages of the New York Times rustled like leaves in an urban jungle.

The divorce was final just shy of their tenth anniversary. There was no acrimony, just a mutual feeling that it was time to finish what they'd started. They signed the papers and went out for one last lunch together. Rossi already had an option on a place in Virginia. Donna was keeping their apartment, too busy to bother relocating. "I'm sorry it didn't work," she said over her veal. "Really, I'm married to my job."

She proved herself right; Rossi got occasional notes from Donna, updates on her promotions, her prestigious corner office. He was happy for her, until the day when every news channel showed the Towers in flames, when he wondered bleakly if, in the end, she'd regretted that marriage, too..