We did have a love that big. And I’d been proud of the drama-free life John and I were leading. So different from my early years. Little did I know what drama I was actually involved in. I thought our quiet conversation signaled contentment, two pleasantly exhausted professionals communicating in ways deeper than words. And then to bed. And then to bed. I’m going to miss that. For John adored my body. That’s his word, not mine. Adored. I’ve always found the sight of my slight, bony frame distasteful. But he’d clasp his hands around my waist and marvel that his fingers could almost touch. He’d lift my arms up to admire their leanness. I had begun to think of myself differently. As attractive. The fact is, I simply don’t much care for eating. I think of it as consuming the necessary units of nutrition. My vegetable matter, my proteins, my fluids. I’m indifferent to the forms my units take. I wouldn’t say I’m fastidious—if anything, the opposite. Everything is bland, nothing sticks out as particularly appetizing. A mild form of ageusia. Hypogeusia, to be accurate. An inability to taste. Not enough to put me at risk, healthwise, but it doesn’t lend itself to overeating. I tend to pick my foods by colors. Deep greens, deep yellows, deep reds.
I am equally indifferent to alcohol. Yet John and I sat down each evening we were together with our wine. I think it was the image of the chardonnay in the glass that attracted me, the rich golden color, the cool feel of the glass containing the chilled liquid on my fingers. What sense I lack in my taste buds is most definitely compensated for by my epidermis. John had only to brush his fingers against my shoulder for me to shiver with desire.
I notice that cars are parking behind me, people are starting to walk up the pavement to the house. Deborah is in the doorway, beckoning people in.
I glance at the Chronicle obituary I brought with me. It is lying on the passenger seat. The photo of John when young, playing the piano. An unconventional one to choose for a death notice. John had been devilishly handsome—that youth, that mischievousness. No, the John I’d known was a tired man, a man beaten down by too much responsibility. Someone who had lost touch with joy. Yet he brought me joy. And I had believed that I introduced some pleasure to his life.
At this, the grief hits again. Strange how transient it is. Usually my emotions are stable, with predictable transitions from one state to another. But not this. The throbbing in the chest, why does it feel like the pain is centered there? Even the smallest children, who can’t know anything of the location of the heart, point to their chests when they’re in emotional distress. One could argue it has to do with our lungs, that the physiological pressure on them during times of extreme stress makes us associate our chests with emotion. After all, there’s no real connection between the heart and the mind. The heart is just a motor for channeling blood to the body’s extremities. Yet it does hurt there. One could hold both hands to one’s left breast to try to contain the pain.
If John had genuinely been my husband, I could announce his death to close friends and associates we had revealed our marriage to. I could grieve publicly. But I can’t slink back into my condo, husbandless, leaving people to wonder what the hell happened? For perhaps the first time in my adult life I find myself wondering what others might think. No. If nothing else, I’ll need to untangle the legalities. I suspect that will involve going to court to get my marriage annulled. So be it. If I can’t claim widowhood at least I’ll be single again. Not that I’ll ever remarry. I had been right to think it inhospitable territory for the likes of me.