You've seen that look, you've seen it a million times. And you're too scared to admit to yourself what it may mean.
You watch him as he dresses. He is still handsome and he still takes your breath away.
"I'll be ready in a moment," he tells you. And there is no smile, there is no teasing or playfulness. He does not wrinkle his brow or let his gaze stay on you for too long. His eyes go to the mirror he is in front of and he is frustrated with the knot at his throat. And even though he will never tie it correctly, he does not allow you to help him. He never allows you to help him.
But you tell yourself that it's one of those days. But it's always one of those days. Yet you shrug your shoulders and wait for him.
Because the past is the past, right? And the future is still ahead.
And to admit that you know what that look is will shake the foundations that you've built this life on top of. This life with him.
And so, when it's late at night and you see that very quick glimmer of surprise in his eyes when he rolls over and sees you lying there, your face and not another, you pretend not to notice.
When a decade goes by and he closes his eyes when he kisses you, you tell yourself that that's just time. You tell yourself that he's romantic.
When fifty years pass and your children are grown and out of the house, you pretend that you do not hear your home ringing with emptiness, you tell yourself that it does not echo in its hollowness. In a hundred years, you tell yourself that it's time together, too much time together, that has caused the bloom to fall off the rose.
In two hundred years, maybe it will not hurt that he still visits her grave on anniversaries. And not just the anniversary of her death either. No. It's on her birthday. The anniversary of their marriage. Even his birthday, when he can manage to sneak away for a few hours. And other days that you do not know the meaning of. You try to tell yourself that it's habit for him. A desperate unwillingness to ever truly give up on anyone. Maybe it's a sort of cleansing. A way for him to remember that he fights for a reason.
You've seen that look, you've seen it a million times.
Sometimes he's standing on the other side of the room. You can have a hundred people between you and him. And he's looking into space. And you think that maybe he's trying to write her name in the stars.
Sometimes a brunette will pass by and his gaze will swing so quickly that it almost hurts your neck to follow him. Then, it's in the disappointment you pretend not to notice. The glimmer of fresh pain as he tries to suppress it and blink it away.
Sometimes it is the middle of battle and he is on the verge of dying. You can see it, the- eagerness?- the willingness to die. And the barely contained disappointment when he is allowed his next breath, his next day; when he is allowed the rest of his life.
On your wall are pictures of your children. Filled with laughter and happiness. You hold on to these things. You hold on to memories that have been made over years and decades and centuries. You hope that time will bind you to him. That habit will outweigh . . . what you're too afraid to name.
Sometimes it is as though he were trying to tune in to a faraway sound. Desperately searching for something. Sometimes, you think that he does not even realize he is doing it.
You see it in the guilt that rides his face when you make love to him. The guilt he feels for enjoying it. The guilt he feels for not having the strength to be alone. The guilt he feels towards her, but never towards you. It's in the soft press of his lips to your temple. The way he does not draw you near afterwards. The contact he can barely manage.
You have met the ones that are from other worlds. Or rather other versions of your world. And you have seen the surprise, the condemnation, and- worst of all- the pity that lights their eyes.
Part of you wants to press him, force him to say he's made a mistake. Make him confront it, throw it in his face until he is as miserable as you are. But that look, that look tells you that he is more miserable.
So you accept the position of second choice. The role of stand in. And you wonder if you are a fool for trying to mend a heart that did not want to be fixed.
You wonder if you will care in a thousand years.
But even through the changing of the leaves and the wax and wane of stars it jabs at you like the cruelest of knives. Cruel in its secrecy, cruel in its unintendeness.
"Are you ready?" he asks, and for a moment you are blinded. In the moment between the opening of the door and when he grabs your hand, you almost forgive him. But his touch is too gentle. As if he did not realize your strength. As if he thought he might crush your hand if he held it tighter.
And you want to be upset, because no marriage is big enough to hold three people. But somehow you feel as if you are the intruder. Sometimes you think your husband is cheating on you with a ghost.
You've seen that look, you've seen it a million times. And you're too scared to admit to yourself what it may mean.