Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, the merethought is ridiculous. Song: "Brothers on a Hotel Bed" by Death Cab for Cutie.
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Monica is standing by the bathroom mirror, making sure that her hair looks the way it is supposed to. I swallow hard as she checks on her make-up, and puts on a tiny bit more lipstick. She smiles at her own reflection, obviously satisfied with the result. She is wearing a stunning black dress that would, at some point in our relationship, have taken my breath away; still I admit to myself that she does looks perfect. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy. The thought doesn't do anything for me. I clear my throat and try to squeeze past her. We both flinch as my arm rubs against her back, and I mumble a quiet excuse. My eyes meet hers in the mirror and we both hurry to look away. I grab the magazine I have come looking for and make my way out the door again. I notice the fact that Monica moves closer to the wash basin, to avoid any contact. I imagine that I feel hurt by that fact, but I can't kid myself forever. The fact that she doesn't want to be touched by me doesn't bother me. It is the fact that I don't care that is scary. I hear Monica start humming as I leave the bathroom, and I flip down into the armchair with my magazine and give a sigh. Monica is going out tonight. With whom, I don't know. Someone from work? An old friend from school? A guy she has just met at the coffee house? A lover? I really don't know. I haven't asked. I stick with the idea that it might be an old friend or a work mate, because that way, at least I'll be able to sleep tonight. I hear her leave the bathroom and the scent of her perfume hits me like a slap in the face as she walks to our bedroom. It is not the one I gave her for her birthday. In fact, this one has to be brand new. For the first time in weeks, I feel slightly hurt. A woman doesn't buy herself perfume that much I know about women. She emerges from the bedroom with her purse; holding her coat in her other hand. I look up at her. She looks as beautiful as she ever did; but again, the thought does nothing for me. She is wearing a necklace that I can't remember giving her; something from before us? At least I have seen it before. It is a poor comfort. I try to get a glimpse of her hands, because I know that the day she removes her wedding ring will be the day that this ends. My family; my life; my universe. I am slightly disappointed to see that she has already put on her gloves. I don't like not knowing.
"Bye." She says shortly, as she opens the door. We have long since stopped playing the loving spouse-game, and I know that I'm not even required to answer. It won't matter if I do, just as it won't matter if I don't. The door closes behind her with a soft thud, and as I inhale deeply all I can smell is the unfamiliar scent of her new perfume. I get up to open the window to the balcony. Just out of curiosity I step out, and I look over the edge. I see Monica get into a cab. At least she is discrete enough not to meet her date underneath our balcony. My gaze finds its way to Ross's window. He's sitting on the couch with Rachel, and I can see that they are laughing. I quickly get back inside. No matter how happy I am for them getting back together, seeing them together, especially with Emma, breaks my heart. They have what Monica and I don't have. Can't have. Because, simply, Monica and I can't have children. I grab a beer from the fridge and turn the TV on. I quickly turn it off again. All they ever show is mushy films about happy-ever-after love, and I can't stand it. There is no such thing. No matter how much I wanted there to be. Life is a hard place, and love is a temporary way to make things seem lighter. Love is never constant.
I spend a few hours flipping through magazines and a few books. I have more beers; watch some TV, and try to get some work done. I want to keep my mind off Monica. The thought that has been going through my head all evening resurfaces: when did it get this bad? When did it get to the point where my wife can dress up in one of her most sexy dresses, wear perfume I haven't given her together with jewelry she hasn't worn since we got together because she got it from an old boyfriend, and then go on a date, with me just giving my silent support? It started after we found out that we couldn't have children. She just didn't seem to want to touch me. Just didn't want to be touched anymore. I don't know when I kissed her last. It scares me to realize that I can't remember the taste of her lips. My heart breaks as the forbidden thoughts penetrate the carefully erected walls in my head. Is there another man who knows my wife's lips and body better than me now? I push those thoughts away hurriedly as the walls seem to close in on me. Panic rises in my throat, and it takes several minutes of calm breathing to get my heart and head back under control. The irony in it all does not pass me by unnoticed. Chandler Bing, former commitment-freak with the largest relationship-phobia in history, has to fight hard not to panic at the prospect of being alone. At that I feel pathetic. As I have some more beer, I feel more betrayed than pathetic. Monica taught me to trust. I thought that of all people she would be the last one to hurt me, because when I looked into her eyes, it was like looking into my own, no matter how cheesy that sounds. I was naïve enough to think that our love was strong enough to live through anything. I laugh bitterly at the fact that it was the biggest lie of my life. So, we changed. We aren't the same people any longer. Maybe we just changed a little too much? Were we better off when we were still unsure of our roles in our relationship? I know that the answer is that we were fine, good, great, until nature brutally told us that we didn't match. Who can argue with nature?
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You may tire of me
As our December sun is setting
'Cause I'm not who I used to be
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01.15. The red numbers stick in my eyes, and I turn around, facing Monica's side of the bed. I find it empty. Once again. I tell myself that it's not that late, it could have been worse. I look at her pillow and suddenly my feelings overwhelm me. I may be confused when it comes to my feelings for Monica right now, but I haven't forgotten the way things used to be. I can see her dark hair spread around her head on that pillow. I know how soft it is, because I used to play with it. I can remember the twinkle in her eyes; the light from her bedside table lamp reflecting in their glazy surface. The smile on her face as I tell her that I love her; that I will stay for ever and ever, and that if I could, I would hold her in my arms until the end of time. It has been such a long time since she told me something like that. Sometimes I wonder if that is what she needs to hear. But how can I tell her that, when I know what she is doing to me? How on earth can I still feel love for her like if there is no tomorrow, every night, and still let her hurt me every day. I turn on my lamp and when I turn back to look at the empty half next to me, something on Monica's bedside table catches my eye. There it is. This is the moment I have been dreading for months. Tucked underneath a magazine is Monica's wedding band. I reach out with my trembling fingers and pick it up. I try to make up excuses for why she would have left it there, but I know that there are none. My wedding ring is still on my finger. It doesn't even go off when I take a bath. I would feel like I betrayed Monica if I ever took it off. She took it off. I close my hand around it, and I remember a conversation with Monica, years ago. She thought that I wouldn't cry, even if she died, but when we sat down to properly talk about it, I couldn't even say the word before collapsing into tears. This is the same thing. As I look at the ring in my hand, the ring that was perfect, I realize that this is it. This is the end. The walls come crashing in, and nothing can stop my tears.
The water is cold against my face, but still I keep splashing it on. I meet my own gaze in the mirror, but if I hadn't know how a mirror worked I couldn't have said that it was me. I am pale, but I know that has something to do with spending an hour on the bathroom floor throwing up. I don't know my eyes any longer. They are hard. Much more gray than they have ever been before in my life. They scare me. When I look into them I see death. I also see wrinkles where there have never been wrinkles before. I am not that old, am I? I'm not even forty. I decide that I look tired. And I am tired. Hurt and tired. I dry my face with a towel that smells of Monica. The thought makes me nauseous, and I sit down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. I thought that Monica and I were meant to be. It seemed like such a great combination. Best friends and lovers. I honestly didn't think that it would ever end. I damn my slow "swimmers" and her inhospitable uterus. Would this have happened if we had had a family by now? Surely a baby would have kept us together, right? Still, I don't know that.
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'Cause I'm not who I used to be
No longer easy on the eyes
These wrinkles masterfully disguise
The youthful boy below
Who turned your way and saw
Something he was not looking for,
Both a beginning and an end
But now he lives inside
Someone he does not recognize
When he catches his reflection on accident
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The sound of the door opening wakes me up at five thirty. I hear Monica throw her stilettos on the floor, not even bothering to keep the noise down. I swallow hard to get rid of the lump in my throat, but it doesn't help. I still have her ring in my hand. I am not sure why. I want her to put it back on; but at the same time I want her to know that I know she took it off, and that it almost killed me. I hear her steps coming towards the bedroom, and the door opens to let her in. She undresses in silence, and then sits down on the bed. She pulls her pyjamas from underneath the pillow and I try to keep still. The bed shifts as she crawls under the covers. She fluffs up her pillows, and then I hear her lift the magazine, to retrieve her ring. Has she done this before? I draw a deep breath as quietly as I can, and I inhale her scent. The perfume and the smell of sex and alcohol make me nauseous again, and I squeeze the ring tighter in my hand. She gets off the bed again and I open my eyes long enough to see that she kneels down on the floor.
"Are you looking for this?" I ask her with contempt, and hold up her ring. She scrambles back onto the bed and grabs it from my hand. I sit up and look at her as she puts it back on. "Is there a point in doing that?" I ask angrily and grab her hand to pull it off again. To my big surprise she pulls her hand towards her chest and covers it with her other hand.
"It's still mine…" She tells me, her voice quiet. "Look, Chandler, I didn't mean for you to know." She looks truly upset, and I can't for my life figure out why. She has obviously been cheating on me with someone else, but she can't show me that she takes off her wedding ring?
"I don't want you to wear it." I tell her, even though I don't really mean it. Then I ask the question I should have asked a long time ago. "Where have you been?" She reaches out to turn on her table lamp, and she looks at me. I can see that she too has to concentrate to recognize me; just as I can't really see my wife in the woman next to me.
"You really don't want to know." She chuckles darkly, and leans hard against the headboard. Her breath smells of alcohol. Scotch. On the rocks, with a twist. How much has she been drinking? "Knowing you, you already have it figured out anyway, Chandler. You're not stupid, and I haven't exactly been hiding it." I swallow hard, and I wish that this nightmare will end soon. I want my Monica back. My marriage. My life. Everything that was perfect just a few months ago.
"So, you're seeing someone else?" I choke out the words, and Monica seems truly surprised at the hurt expression on my face. I am aware of the fact that there are tears running down my face now, and as I look at Monica I can see that she is shocked. "Who is it?" I whisper, and for a few seconds I am not even sure that she heard me. I pray that she won't tell me, because I have a pretty good idea, and I know that I don't want it confirmed. But she dives straight in.
"It's Richard." She tells me and suddenly I can't breathe. I fight to get the covers off of my legs and I storm out into the living room. The walls in there seem less close, but everywhere I turn I keep seeing Richard. The thought makes me sick, but my mind is barely coherent enough to register it. Monica enters from the bedroom and at another time I would have killed for the look that she gives me. She is worried. She practically radiates regret and concern; but I know that she must think that I have gone crazy considering the way I keep spinning around in our living room. I collapse against the back of the couch, crying uncontrollably. I can feel my heart beat in my chest, it is painful, but I am truly surprised that it is there; in one piece. I wish I could reach through my rib cage, take it out and throw it away. It hurts too much. I can't bear it. As I calm down a little; seconds, minutes, hours later, I become aware of the fact that Monica is crying too. At first the thought brings a little comfort to my aching heart; but I know that seeing Monica sad will always hurt me more than anything. Even when she deserves being sad. She is sitting by the window. Her hair is wet, and a towel is thrown haphazardly on the floor below her. I realize that I must have been gone for quite some time. It is getting light outside, the street lights have been turned off. Monica has apparently had time to shower, or take a bath. I look at my watch. Six fifty. More than an hour. I wonder how many hours we have left as husband and wife. As so many other statements, this one, that I have always dreaded the most, does nothing for me.
I get up to make myself some coffee. I don't make her a cup, I know she might need one, but I don't want to think about her anymore. She doesn't move from the window until I have almost finished my cup. She sits down on the chair opposite of mine, leaving a trail of scent that I will always connect to Monica. It's her shower crème. I try not to breathe, but I can't go for very long. I inhale sharply and she looks up at me.
"I am so sorry." She tells me, and I look at her weirdly. Those words seem so insufficient. There is no way they can cover for what she did. Richard. Couldn't it have been anyone but Richard? Does she really want to see me dead?
"It's not enough." I tell her, and play with the coffee mug. Her tears are gone, just as mine are. "What do you expect me to make out of this? You pick me over him, saying that you love me; but then when it turns out we can't have children, you go running back to him." She doesn't answer, and she fidgets around on her chair. "Do you love him?" Her head snaps up to meet my gaze, but I see her hesitating, and it is all I need to know. "Fine." I declare, so much calmer than I thought was possible in this situation. "I'll have our lawyer send the divorce documents." This time it is Monica who breaks into hysterical tears; but I am not sure over what. She is the one who cheated on me. She is the one who broke us apart. I head for the bathroom to shower; knowing that this will have to be my absolute last day in this apartment. I need to break free. I need to be alone. Away from Monica. Away from our friends. Away from New York. Monica is gone when I exit the bathroom a good forty-five minutes later. I throw some of my clothes into a sports bag, and put whatever documents I have brought with me from work on top. I make sure to bring a suit, even though I doubt I'll be going to work for a while. I meet Joey on the stairs as I flee our apartment building. He calls my name, but I grab a cab, I tell the driver to go to my office and I never look back. My heart yearns a little for Monica. I wonder fleetingly if she went back to Richard's place, but frankly I don't care. I call our phone, just to tell her that if there is anything she can reach me through our lawyer. I can't tell her where I am going. I honestly don't know. I just know I need to get away.
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On the back of a motor bike
With your arms outstretched trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind
But even at our swiftest speed
We couldn't break from the concrete
In the city where we still reside
And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn
For the sea like navy men
'Cause now we say goodnight from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed
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I correct my blue shirt slightly as I press the button on the intercom, waiting for my former brother-in-law to let me in. I have agreed to come to Emma's third birthday party, even though I know that Monica will be there. I haven't seen her for six months. Not since the day I came to pick up the rest of my stuff from her apartment. Our divorce is final now. That fact doesn't make me feel better. I dream about her. Sometimes the dreams have a pure sexual content, and as much as I don't mind those dreams, they can make me a little sick. Then there is the other kind; where she's just there – playing the role of my wife. Touching me, kissing me. I shake the thoughts of Monica out of my head as Ross buzzes me up. I move Emma's present nervously from hand to hand as I stand outside Ross' door, waiting to be let in. Monica is the first thing that catches my eyes as the door opens, but I focus all my energy on the bouncy toddler at my feet. I give her the present. It's a brown-haired baby doll, and even though it was the prettiest doll in the store, it freaks me out a little. It has got my eyes. Same color, same lack of depth and sense of life. Emma bounces off to her aunty Monica to show her the new addition to the Geller-Green household and I watch Ross' mouth as he tells me something. Time seems to run painfully slow. Monica keeps to one side of the living room and I to the other. I know that we hurt our friends by behaving like this, and I am truly sorry for that. I don't meet her gaze until after we have had the cake, a good hour into my visit. She looks different, and not in a good way. Emma is in her lap, licking her fingers clean of cake. I try to decide if Monica is happy. Her eyes are hollow, empty almost and I know just how she feels. I excuse myself to Ross and Joey and flip down on the couch next to Monica. She looks frightened, and she shifts Emma around in her lap. Phoebe, seated on the other side of Monica quickly grabs Emma and pulls her into a newly invented game á la Phoebe Buffay. Monica looks uncomfortable.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" I ask her quietly. She looks at her hands and I try to decide if she hesitates because she doesn't want anything to do with me or because she feels guilty for doing this to us. Then, finally, she nods and I smile weakly.
"Just give me a minute." She says. Her voice is weak, and her eyes sad when they meet mine for confirmation. "I need to wash off my hands." My eyes involuntarily find her hands that are resting in her lap. God, I used to love those hands. I love those hands, present tense. I snap my head up to meet her eyes and I smile. A natural smile, not forced in any way, because I am smiling at the only one who has ever seen that smile directed at her before. The woman whose hands I love more than any hands in the world. The woman whose smile now graces me, and I bask in it as if it was the warm summer sun. I become aware of Phoebe looking at us, but I really don't mind.
"I'll talk to Ross and get our coats." I tell her as she too notices Phoebe's inquiring look and hurries to stand up. As she disappears off to the bathroom, I look at Phoebe, who is still studying me. Her face breaks into a knowing smile, and in the absence of me or Monica in her arms she squeezes Emma into a hug. I feel like laughing out loud, jumping up and down with happiness, but all I do is smiling an utterly corny smile that makes Phoebe chuckle.
"You know, she's been really down these last months." Phoebe tells me, still smiling. "And so have you, if I may say so." All I can do is smile. "If you give it enough time, Chandler, you'll be able to work it out." The happiness escapes my lips and I give off a laughing noise. Emma smiles at me as if I am slightly out of my mind. Not exactly high praise from a three year old.
"I know!" I say, in perfect Monica imitation, and I see the woman of my thoughts return from the bathroom. "Thank you Phoebe." I whisper as Monica approaches the couch and I show her to the door. As I hold it open I hear Phoebe whisper happily to her niece:
"I knew they were lobsters!" I smile happily, breaking into laughter as Emma proudly pronounces the new word she has just learnt:
"Lobstes, lobstes!"