Five months later, Charlotte was in heaven. Every day there was a letter from Frank and every weekend, she stayed at his house. They hadn't been intimate since that first night, yet they always shared a bed and found themselves in each other's arms when they woke up. After the first few weeks, they reached a point where much of their weekends were spent with Frank working at his typewriter on his newest set of corrections while Charlotte read on the couch or helped edit his latest draft.
One night, it took Charlotte longer than usual to get to sleep. As she idly lay in bed wondering what to do, it happened. She tried to prevent it; she let cheerful pop songs run amok through her head, reminded herself of the glorious man lying next to her, but it had filled her body, starting from the pit of her stomach. The worst part, and god knows there were many, was that she never knew how long each bout would last. Once it came and went while she was in the shower, and once she had spent nearly three months living with it. She'd once calculated that in total, about a year of her adolescence was spent in that nameless state; doing nothing but lying in bed staring at the wall, exerting nearly all the energy she had smiling weakly and claiming that she was a bit better, not wanting anything, losing all her interests, not feeling anything. She had thought she would grow out of the "episodes", but clearly they couldn't be gotten rid of for a while yet. She continued to lie in bed silently for another minute or so, but she soon realized that it needed to stop, or she would never get to sleep.
"Frank" she murmured, too scared of herself to feel embarrassed. He was a light sleeper and awoke almost instantaneously at the sound of her voice.
"Something wrong, darling?"
"Frank, I—Frank, do you ever get sort of depressed for no reason?"
"Well, I don't really know." He mumbled, still not fully lucid. "I suppose I get melancholy sometimes, but it will usually have to do with my writing. Are you not feeling well, love?"
"I just-" and before she could stop herself, she felt herself dangerously close to being struck by the most embarrassing symptom, the uncontrollable crying. Once it got to crying point, the bout would usually last at least a week. Frank put his arms around her at the first quaver of her voice and she rested her head against him, calming herself with deep breaths. She explained it to him as best she could, and that there was no relief from it that she knew of. He listened to her intently, tightening his grip whenever she seemed especially close to tears.
"Let's try and stop it before it gets any worse, alright?" Charlotte nodded, grateful, though not particularly hopeful. Frank turned on the light and rummaged through his bookshelf for a few moments before finding something suitable.
He climbed back into bed and began reading.
"There were four of us- George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montgomery. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were-bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course." He continued reading, and found himself successful when the hesitant, false, weak little laughs she periodically gave turned into the genuine bursts of giggling that he had grown to love. After about an hour, he stopped to take a sip of water, and she kissed him on the cheek.
"You're wonderful Frank. I think I'm back to normal now."
"Good. I hate to think of my Charlotte in any sort of bad shape."
He turned off the light and she nestled against him.
"Really, I'm just glad you got better before the scene with the drowned woman; that would have set you back for sure."
Charlotte laughed once more, beaming at the fact that thirty minutes earlier, the mere words "drowned woman" would have sent her into a crying fit.
She thanked him the next day by making him scrambled eggs for breakfast, which he insisted they share. He loved her more than ever, and it was all working so well.
They sat at the same table at the same time of day three weeks later, when Frank steeled himself to ask the question he never thought he'd pose to anyone.
"Charlotte" he began, as she ate the last remaining bites from her plate "what do you think of marriage?"
Charlotte repressed the urge to titter nervously. He hasn't asked me or anything. It could just be for an article. Don't get excited, don't embarrass yourself. Don't act like you care. "In general, you mean?"
Frank shrugged in attempted nonchalance. "In general."
See, he's not asking me after all. "Well, I think that it's fundamentally a very archaic tradition, and one could argue that marriage practices and laws have been partly responsible for the subjugation of women. Now, though, I think it's relatively harmless, just so long as it means nothing more than the fact that two people have a little piece of paper to, I don't know, finalize their being together. It really shouldn't be about anything more than that, in my opinion. Why do you ask?"
"Well, Charlotte, I was" he paused, knowing that there was no going back "wondering if you would like to marry me. You don't have to answer right away, just think about it for a few days if you want" Her face practically burst open with excitement.
"Yes, Frank." She put her hand on top of his. "Frank, I love you and" she bit her lip, unsure of what else to say "I'm just so happy. I can't believe it."
Frank grinned and brought her hand to his cheek. Even if it didn't happen, she had said yes. If here were to be struck dead at that moment, it wouldn't have mattered because Charlotte had agreed to marry him.
"Now darling, there would obviously be quite a few things to consider. I don't mean to ruin anything, but I don't want you to have any false expectations."
"Of course, Frank" she continued beaming.
"For one thing, we really do need to discuss the fact that I'm, well, quite a bit older than you."
"Yes, I have realized this. If that really mattered to me, do you think I'd have let things go this far?"
"I know it doesn't matter as much now, but when you're forty-"
"You'll be seventy-one. I know." She got up from her chair and sat awkwardly on Frank's lap, running her hands through his hair. "I don't care, I love you."
"That's no reason for you to have to take care of an invalid when you'll be in the prime of life, so to speak."
She gently put a finger against his lips. "I know what I'm doing, love. And besides, I don't want children, so it's not as though I'd expect you to be particularly active."
"If you do change your mind, I will more than underst-"
She silenced him with a kiss on the lips. "Not another word about it, Frank. We're going to be married."
Married they were; two months later, two weeks after Charlotte's graduation, he in a tuxedo, she in a simple white dress, in a small park where Charlotte had played as a child ("I know it sounds stupid Frank, but I saw a couple get married there once, and I've never been able to imagine my wedding taking place anywhere else."). The only guests were Charlotte's immediate relatives and everyone from Frank's meetings. Mr. and Mrs. Quinn had tried to talk Charlotte out of her decision, especially when they realized that Frank was older than either of them, but their efforts had been in vain, as Charlotte barely paid attention anyway. She knew all the reasons people gave as to why she and Frank shouldn't be together, and that the way she felt overrode any such logic.
Their honeymoon in Rome was a constant rush of delight for Charlotte. Everything from the buildings to the way the air smelled when she opened the hotel room windows seemed almost painfully beautiful since Frank was with her. He recalled every scandalous detail he could on the Roman emperors in order to please her, and every time they went out, he bought her a gelato. They made love once on the trip, but it wasn't appreciably better than the first time.
We're both tired Charlotte explained to herself. We've been traveling for a few days and it's caught up to us, that's all. Once we're settled at home, that's when things are bound to improve. She rolled over and told herself to stop being delusional. It's never going to change. Maybe this is what it's meant to be like. It's probably like this for everyone and people just try and make it sound wonderful in all the books. That must be it. She smiled down at the allegedly sexy red lace lingerie her roommate had gotten for her. She knew now that the passions it promised didn't exist, but she could appreciate and laugh at its false sentiment, realizing that she didn't need what it supposedly offered.