One dynamic, twenty two years, and no idea if any of it transfers

One dynamic, twenty two years, ended three years ago when she left me for a colleague and told me on a Tuesday morning before work. I have not been able to write anything on a board like this until now, and I am aware that opening here is the wrong tone for an advertisement.

Fifty seven, Queens, I work for the city in a department nobody has heard of and I have nine years left until a pension.

What I have is twenty two years of experience and no idea whether any of it transfers. She and I built something specific across two decades and I was genuinely good at it inside that arrangement. I have no evidence at all that I would be any good at it with somebody else, and I would rather say so than turn up presenting the years as a qualification.

What I want is what I had. A household run by a woman, standing duties, an ordinary life with a clear shape. I am not trying to replicate her and I would want to be watched for that, because I know it is the obvious trap.

I am solid, I am unexciting, and I am at the stage of life where I would far rather be told plainly that I am not what somebody is after. Not looking to discuss how it ended for a while yet. Not looking for anybody who wants a project. Not looking for something that has to be intense, because twenty two years taught me that intensity predicts almost nothing.