The Marriage

The separation was easy, and the divorce was even easier. Just as we had coasted into our marriage, we had coasted right out. Our philosophy was to ride the wave to see where we would go and wherever we went, we went, and whatever happened, happened. We had met at a dinner party full of couples and singles looking to be a couple. We sat on a tan couch and drank red wine and talked about Murakami. Later we laughed at the sculpture on the fireplace, and later, at everyone in the room that we didn’t know. We broke apart a few times, engaged in random conversation in different pockets of people and then met again. We left together.

It was just like that. Our relationship went the same way, the days in and out without regret and in and out without worry. We didn’t think about falling off a cliff, and never asked to be caught.

When we married, it reminded us of the party where we met. Secretly I wanted an ice sculpture of the same sculpture on the fireplace; secretly he wanted to invite those people we didn’t know. Secretly I wanted to kiss the first man I met at that dinner party in the hallway after the ceremony just to see what it would be like to crash into a ship that would eventually dock.

We moved into a house by the sea. It had high ceilings and wooden walls and floors. It was airy and the sun shone in every morning. We filled it with plants and old books, papers and sauces. We kissed goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening. We ate dinner and drank wine after. We made love tenderly and touched each other’s bodies like clean sheets. And when we stopped kissing for years and moved further away at night when we slept, we adjusted.

I started to look for a new apartment in the city, closer to the university I would be starting in the fall. He helped me scour through the papers and drove me to meet landlords. They suggested the apartment may be too small for two people and we smiled and said it was just for me. I pointed out the windows and he remarked on the wooden floors.

Then, he would be gone for weeks at a time. The house was empty and cool. I would put my feet up on the couch and lay naked. I would stay in for days and never put on anything. I packed slowly and threw away old letters. He would come home from his trips and kiss my cheek, and I would be wearing something old.

When we signed the papers we were fair. We knew what was ours and what to give and didn’t mind either way. He had found a smaller house to rent in London, where he took up a position at a new firm. I said I would visit, but I didn’t think I would.

When we finally started to break down our home, the newspapers stained our fingers and the cardboard boxes shed strips of brown skin. The last piece was the big wooden bed we had found at an antique shop. It had flowers carved into the posts and delicate cracks. It used to creak at night when we were laying still, longing for something, wishing to splinter. We had assembled it on our own, parts of it were broken so the nails were random and dug in deep. When we took it apart, tenderly, and slowly, beads of perspiration formed on my upper lip and on his forehead. Standing in the center of the frame with just a few more nails to pull out we looked at each other for the first time with a sense of urgency and he pulled my face to his and kissed it. We started to cry, started to shake and splinter and crash. Large waves were splashing upon our ears and our grips tightened. We held each other tight, sweat churning and foaming, and jumped.