Marriage Snapshots

Lee and I wake up before 8 on Saturday morning. I’m always surprised when his eyes are open before mine, and this morning, they are wide open. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is his observations of a discrepancy occurring in the last House episode that we watched this week, “If Wilson… then why…” I have no intelligent reply. I’m just baffled that his brain is working so early in the morning.

While I’m brushing my teeth, he’s already downstairs. I’m about to prep for my tutoring and I see him sitting at the computer desk reading a short story. I’m ecstatic. I’ve got three Raymond Carver stories sitting on the desk (for inspiration when I’m doing my own writing): “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,” “Fat,” and “They’re Not Your Husband.” By the time I look over his shoulder, he’s finishing up one of them.

A number of thoughts come to me. One: how much I wanted “that.” You have my husband, who isn’t a “short story” reader, who skims the first page of a story that I happen to have lying around, and feels compelled enough by the beginning to have to read to see its end. Now—how do I achieve that for myself? Second: how good it feels to have him take part in this whole process I am engaged in. I can’t help but run over and give him a big hug. He’s somewhat intrigued by Carver’s main character. Of course, every time I thrust a short story on him to read, his reading the last line is typically followed by, “So what…” The quizzical look—all short stories seem to end abruptly to him. I try to explain to him—“that’s why the form is so hard to pull off.” Feel my pain, honey! Because the story he’s just read is about a wife who is fat, he turns to me with that cute, animated look, and says, “Why don’t you write a story about—farting?” I laugh, but I understand where he’s coming from. He got the story—how simple and real it was, but poignant nonetheless.

Of course, at some point, Lee is going to check up on me in this blog and he may want to defend himself. One thing I didn’t realize when I started this blog: so far, I’ve been writing about the things that have moved me in some way; so many of the things I forget or don’t think it necessary to mention to my husband. It never occurred to me that he’d find out about them here.

Like this morning. He’s working at the desk, and I’m on the laptop again—writing. He holds onto the coffee I’ve made for him and says to me, “You like these mornings, don’t you?” And I smile, “Yes, I do.”