A Snapshot of a Marriage

Here is a photo. In the photo, I’m garbed in a beautiful white gown, holding a bouquet. My hair is pinned up and curly tendrils are framing my laughing face. The man beside me is handsome in his suit, and has his arms around my waist. He is looking at the camera, his eyes a brilliant gold, his lips frozen in a beautiful smile. I’m leaning into him and we look so happy, so beautiful. The gold band on my finger glitters magically, with all the promise of a new life filled with love.

Here’s another photo. I’m not beautifully made up like in the first one. Rather, my hair hangs limply around my face, and I look tired. But I’m smiling joyfully at this bundle of blanket in my arms, which transforms my exhausted face. The man from the first picture has his hand on my shoulder and his warm, beautiful face is crinkling from smiling so hard. The hospital room is dreary but we seem to glow with sheer happiness.

Another photo. A little girl stands with her black hair in pigtails, grinning toothlessly at the camera, with her parents behind her, arms wrapped around one another. At her feet lies a border collie that looks at the camera dolefully. While she grins her cheerful grin, the man and I smile adoringly at each other, smiling our own cheerful grins. We’re an ideal family, a handsome father, a pretty mother and an adorable daughter. Behind us, our perfect suburban house looms, warm and inviting.

The last set of photos is grainy and low-quality. The handsome man is smiling his beautiful smile at a stunning, half-naked Asian woman and my head is pounding. She has a hand in his hair and her other hand in the top of his shirt. In the next photo, his shirt is off and my marriage is unravelling. In the next photo, he’s laughing a laugh I haven’t seen in years and my heart is aching. In the subsequent photo, she is leaning in and they are kissing and my world is crashing down around me, chunks of memories smashing down. The next photos are blurry and tears are splotching down on her face, on her naked, slim body, on his hands in her hair. Suddenly the photos are flying, spreading over my bedroom floor, blanketing it with images of my life shattering into a thousand pieces.

Here’s where I rock back and forth, making excuses, arguing with my mind, my heart, my God. Here’s where I go into his closet and rip his clothes from the hangers and fling them all over the bedroom. Here’s where I sink to my knees and gather his shirts in my arms and cry hurt, humiliated tears into his scent. Here’s where I curl into a foetal position with my mind empty, my body weak, my head pounding.
Now he’s opening the door, calling my name cheerfully. Now, he’s walking into the house, up the stairs, into the bedroom. Now he cries out in surprise and sees me, his beautiful face creased in worry. Now he catches sight of the photo, of the beautiful Asian woman and his amber eyes are widening in horror. Now he knows. Now he knows what I know. Now he’s whispering my name, apologizing with every breath and I’m staring at the man I love with hatred.

I’m so sorry. I love you. Please forgive me. It was a mistake. It’ll never happen again. You’re my world. You’re my everything. Please say something. Say you’ll forgive me. Tell me what you’re thinking. Do something. Anything. Please. I love you so much.

And I continue to stare at him. I observe everything, like I’m looking at a new person. His frantic hand gestures, his moist eyes, his pleading tone. I want to forgive him because I love him. I love his messy black hair and his eyes that crinkle when he smiles and those rosy lips and that perfect smile and that tall build.

How could you? I trusted you. How can I forgive you? You betrayed me. How can you say you love me? When you fucked her without a thought. Why would you do this? Maybe I’m not good enough. Did she make you feel good about yourself? Did you enjoy destroying our marriage?

He stands there, his eyes downcast, a pitiful expression on his face. He stands there and lets me lash him with my words, lets my tears wash down upon him. He cringes but does not move when I hurl insults at him, when I throw clothes, pictures, grief, hysteria, memories at him. He just watches me, with a curious sadness, a disbelieving horror.

I want a divorce.

And his tableau breaks. Those four words shatter him. He falls to his knees and begins to cry. To beg. But I can’t stand his pathetic display. I just want him gone. Out of my house. Out of my heart. Out of my life.

Leave.

I love you.

I don’t care.

I’m sorry.

Then he gets up with the same hangdog expression and walks out of the room. I fall back onto the bed, and observe the mess I have created in my room, in my marriage, in my life.

Come back.

Except this doesn’t leave my mind. Not when he walks down the stairs. Not when he crosses the foyer. Not when the front door opens and closes. Not when the car starts and he drives away.

I pick up a photo. It is a photo of a man kissing a beautiful woman on their wedding day. It is the photo of a ruined marriage, of two destroyed lives.