He comes in the door, and I make a conscious effort to put my thoughts behind me. I remind myself: you can do this. Just a few more days. And then a few more days after that... It's always just a few more days. Just a few more lies. Just a few more times I pretend not to be grieved by his words or the absence of them. Just a bit more.
The look in his eyes speaks of numbness and ignorance. He stopped noticing there were any problems a long time ago, and he stopped caring long before that. Love, crusted on the outside and rotting within. That's the left-over casserole that we call our marriage these days.
Not that I haven't contributed anything to the decay. Not that I haven't found my own ways to cope. He thinks I'm just this tiny little neglected damsel, and that I willingly accept my role. He couldn't be more wrong. I don't hate myself enough to stay in this farce without receiving my own benefits.
His name is John. Not my husband, John. And he doesn't love me, either. I used to think that he did, but I realize more and more everyday that genuine affection of any sort is as endangered as the rhino. My mom cares for me just enough to keep her guilt at bay. My brother, Tyler, thinks that as long as he sends Christmas cards with lengthy letters, that means the family bond is kept in tact. It's all a show put on to satisfy our own vanities. Nothing deeper.
But here I am, getting some kind of high from knowing he believes me when I tell him I spent the day reorganizing the refrigerator. He'll open its door, and every item will be in exactly the same place as when he last saw it. But he won't notice. He never did notice those things. If I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees for three hour because a jar of honey had been shattered on it, he wouldn't even lift his head to give an appreciative nod. It's not that he's incapable of caring. There were things he cared about once, even more than polishing and rebuilding his cars. But it's easier for him dwell low in the same lulled state, day in and day out. Expecting the same from me. Not thinking that I'm plotting a way out of here.
But its been years now. It's been years, and everything is still the same. I used to think my husband, Brian, was my knight in shining armor, ready to sweep me off my feet at even the hint of trouble. Then I realized like an alarm clock crashing you out of a dream that he wasn't. For a good long while, though, I still waited for him to transform into my Prince Charming. But he proved to me over and over again that he had no interest in transforming at all into anything - ever. So I sought Prince Knight else where. I went through a lot of Prince Charmings in those first five years of wandering. The retail agent, the carpenter ... the teenage. I mean, he was nineteen, so I was perfectly within my legal limits, but still. I was thirty at the time. We used to listen to country songs about wild affairs and then do our best to re-enact them. But I was seriously deluding myself to imagine that was going anywhere. It was fun, but possibly the most heart breaking tryst of them all. I'll never forget those blue eyes. They were alive with light - the kind of light that I used to kid myself into thinking was inside of Brian. If it ever was there, that light was smothered long before we even met. All I was ever exposed to was its ghost, and even the ghost is long-gone now.
The nineteen year old, though. He had something. He looked out at the world like it was looking back and speaking to him, and he would crane his neck, trying to take in the things it said in wordless expressions. He wasn't a painter or a poet, but those blue eyes were worth more than murals or stanzas. They spoke the languages that are spoken deep inside of hearts and tucked in between the folds of memories. And what I hoped for, when I looked into those young fiery eyes, was that I could speak back to them. That I had the capability of communicating the same kinds of utterances. That my fire hadn't died just as my husband's had.
It didn't end well. One night, getting lost in the imagined worlds I stared into with him, I broke down and exposed myself. The tears poured, and I confessed all the horror I had been through in my marriage. All the hurt I had internalized. I released the grief that bent me double. And I told him about my hope. My ever expectant wait for the Alabaster Prince. And I asked him if he would be that for me - if he would carry me away on his white horse, away from danger. Then, as I continued speaking, I realized something. While he was completely taking in everything I was telling, the look he was projecting back to me wasn't of wonder and hope and mutual excitement. It was of confusion, every second mingling more and more with that of fear. He stuttered ...
"Um, uh . . . I'm sorry. I mean, you're amazing to be with, but I can't... I can't be that for you. I mean, I have things I want to do with my life and places to go, and... I'm sorry. This was absolutely amazing, but I guess it's probably meant a lot more for you than it has for me."
"Oh my god, please don't go. You're the closest I've ever come to having hope."
"I can't be your hope, Marva. You have to find that inside yourself."
And he drove away.
See, that's the thing. That's the whole reason behind me looking for Prince Charming. The whole reason for my self delusional belief that Brian could be that. I don't have that hope. Not a lick of it. All I have is the desire to look for it in someone else. How is that supposed to work in the first place, HOPE? As if I'm really supposed to believe that all this can get better? Sure. Sure it will. Tomorrow will hurt less than today and more and more offences piled up upon an already wounded heart will help. Sure. I do have hope that it will never get better - is that hope?
So, my answer is just trying to numb the pain with whoever may be available and mildly interesting. Preferably something that will last for a while, even if there's not much value in it besides the value lent to it by the forbidden fruit of deception and adultery. But here's the problem:
The problem is, no matter how much I repeat over and over to myself that this new relationship is only temporary and I'm only using it as a high that doesn't get me all that high, I still wonder if maybe, just maybe, this one could be the real Prince I've been looking for.
And the biggest problem comes into play when I look at my husband, Brian. Because even though I know that I won't ever see my Rescuing Princely Knight in his eyes; even though I know that all I will ever see is callousness and bitterness and resentment; even though I know I will never find my hope there - I still look.
