I’ve always imagined myself marrying someone who…was not like me. Not that I imagine it much, mind you, but when I do, I see myself laughing and enjoying myself, surrounded by sunlight and smiles. My husband is never in the foreground, but always there; like the person who only just made it into the snapshot, face half cut off, shadowy and out of focus, or eyes blinked shut, just at that instant when the shutter comes down to capture the essence of my marriage in the span of an instant.
I can’t realistically imagine marrying for love. Well, not on my side, at least. I imagine I’d marry for comfort or convenience; sometimes luxury; sometimes I imagine I’ve married for money. Never a cruel or unkind person; someone who is pleasant enough to be around and who doesn’t mind that I wouldn’t devote every second of my day to worshiping him; someone who is reasonably well off and who would wish me to be happy in what I choose to do, so long as I stand by his side. That’s all I can hope for, actually. Quite sad when I think about it. No love stories, no eternal devotion or butterflies. Just the hope that whoever I’m with will follow the wise words of Oscar Wilde and accept that women were made to be loved, not understood.
I think I’d like it, married life. Not in the honeymoon sense, or the working-through-life-together sense; more just the ability to do what I wished freely, and have someone to spend time with when lonely.
I don’t ever imagine my husband to understand me, though. That would be too much; too controlling, constraining, constricting. I would do my own things, live my own life, create my own world. And as much as he would hope to contain me, he would not be able.
I imagine us dating. Not wine and dine romance, but more like him following me through my everyday life. Once again, it’d be me in my world, interacting with people I know, doing things I like, and him following me, smiling at being able to see my world and the things that make me happy. But one thing he can’t grasp fully: me. He wouldn’t be able to fully understand me, or know me. I’d show him things, but he’d never fully see my world or understand me.
At some point I imagine he’d get more and more hooked into wanting to know more about me. His solution? Marry me. Make me his. Then he’d see.
Except, once we’re married, he still doesn’t understand it. I’d do my wifely duties, stand by his side when he needs it, be with him when he’s lonely. But never fully let him in. And I’d live my life just as happily. People who wouldn’t know me wouldn’t know anything about my marriage or my husband. Not because I wouldn’t mention it, but because it wouldn’t be worth mentioning compared to the rest of my rich and fulfilled life. I wouldn’t need him, and he’d grow needier and needier. People have a way of getting clingy when they feel something that is theirs slipping through their fingers.
And I genuinely wouldn’t know what he was talking about. Because I’d make up a part of his world, but, to me, he’d be apart from mine; never fully a part of it.
I don’t know how or why, but I’m sure I’d drive him away somehow. Not intentionally, but quietly, unknowingly. Yes I’d be upset for a while; what girl in their right mind wouldn’t be if their adequate, acceptable husband were to leave her. But it’d be superficial. Nothing major.
What on earth would I do if I met someone I actually liked? Actually let in to my world? Or worse, what if there were someone who understood me, without my consent or even my knowledge?
I’d run. Not right away. But I’d try. It’d be a constant struggle. Moth and flame. Fascination, but at some point, I know I’m going to get burned.
That’s how it happens. I don’t know how it came to be this way, but I’ve been afraid of people understanding, getting too close. It’s really disquieting for me. It keeps me up at night, and gives me a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when the full force of the thought sneaks into my mind and catches me off guard: like being punched out of nowhere. It’s like the ground could at any moment fall out from beneath you, and that dream where you’re falling suddenly becomes a reality. And then I start myself awake.
Only, when I wake up, the situation is the same. I’m still in a relationship with someone who knows me, who understands me. And what’s more, I don’t quite know the depths of it. I understand him, as much as I’ve understood any man. But I see only what he shows me. And what he shows me isn’t much. It’s taken time, it’s taken trust. And even then, I know he shows me exactly what he wants to. Exactly which weak points to uncover, exactly which vulnerabilities to share. And I cant stand it. Because suddenly I feel like I’m the one who can’t fully grasp the situation. The one who’s looking at his world and trying to catch him, pin him down, but failing. And there he is, walking ahead in the sunlight. Keeping me around for now, holding my hand beside him. But I know it, I’m only allowed there because he lets me. What little I see is privileged access. And the way he lets me in is as if at any moment he’ll suddenly revoke my backstage pass and leave me in the dark. But not cruelly. Oh no, he’s a master of manipulation and deception. I had to earn my way into being trusted with that pass, and the tests he put me through made damn well sure that I’d never reveal what I saw or be resentful in any way. And I know that when I’m left standing in the dark, I still won’t want to. That’s how he is. Sneaky. Skilful. Manipulative.
But he’s me. And for once, I’m standing on the other side of the picture frame, looking in on a bright world that I know is destined for better things. Things that I can only imagine. And I know that I can never control it, or even contain it. Just like one of his smiles, I can enjoy it while it’s here and remember it when it’s gone. And only hope that I was a part of it for a little while. That I might have been the cause of it.
I know that he’ll never see me in the same way as I see him. As much as I’ve seen, I still don’t know how he sees me. How he really sees me. And maybe he’s told me. He does tell me lots of things, at least compared to what he tells others. But who’s to know if it’s true. If it’s really real. But I do know that he’ll never see me in the way I see him. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, if I see more or less, care more or less, love more or less. But in a way, I don’t want to know.
All I know is that it’s temporary. A snapshot in the sun, where we’re both smiling full smiles and enjoying the world together. I know in time that the moment will pass and that all I’ll have is the snapshot.
And even then, when the snapshot is faded, all I can do is wish.
I know that he’ll have an amazing life. And I know he’ll have an amazing wife to match. He’s that kind. He wont settle for less. His wife will be his best friend. He’ll let her in. She’ll let him in. and they’ll be perfect. They’ll see each other, be a part of each other. And maybe they’ll be each other’s worlds in a way that I could never have or be.
And I won’t wish him bad things. Maybe because he tricked me into it, or because I just wouldn’t be able to muster the ill will, but I will always wish him well. For the things he showed me, for the things I showed him. For the world and time we shared for the snapshot of an instant.
But I’m not a perfect person. And I’m not devoid of ill will. But the most I can do, is wish that he will remember me. And all I can hope is that, despite the perfect worlds that he and his wife will share, she will know of me, and she will be jealous. He will still be entirely hers, and she will know everything he is and was, but she will know of me. And although I cannot hold a candle to her in his eyes, and although they will have infinitely more fun and good times than he and I ever could, she will know. She will know that I was there, and that we shared good times. That we laughed and enjoyed each other, if only for a little while. And she will be jealous of our time in the sun.
