ON the eve of the eve of the new year, 2016, I entered my room. My wife lay under covers, and I asked in my charmingly husbandy voice,”is my wife happy?”
She erupted in hugs and “awww’s”. Slightly typical of B, with a few noteworthy details of this particular ebullient embrace.
“It is so fresh. Being called, ‘wife’. And I have to think, ‘yeah, I am somebody’s wife’…what does it mean?”
It is adorable. It is the sort of warmth that prologues to better sequels of dark tales should begin with. While her answer to the question was,”well, I’m now responsible for picking out your tombstone,” I will definitely take that brand of depressed humor over the comedy of tragedy I wrote with my every breathing moment before I met her.
It is refreshing. I look down at this ring of white gold and bare minimalistic details and smile a bit inside every minute or so. Not so much because it is a dazzling piece of craftspersonship, but also due to its symbolism. While our lives have not altered much from its normal adorable track, there is something beyond all the paperwork and bureaucracy of the marriage institution. The pride associated with me glancing at the ring, thinking,”damn, I’m married like a muthaphukkka!!!”, ever so often throughout the course of my day exudes euphoria. There is this sense of stability and possibly a respectability I had not considered prior to betrothal.