Lucky number 13

It is approaching thirteen years... should I be wary?  July 3rd, 1997 was the day I met Tim, rather it was an evening.  A hot sultry evening in a cramped apartment in a section of town known mostly for catering to homosexuals.  I had just had cocktails with several girlfriends and confided that I was going to focus on my career, men be damned.  Going to a Independence celebration in DuPont Circle didn't bode well for romance anyway.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen with its glaring overhead.  The space seemed to pulse, with music and bodies and the thick summer air.  Tim was standing at the back of the kitchen, clutching his beer like a steadying hand.  He was wearing khakis, a tee shirt and running shoes.  He had a slight comeover and an affable grin.  He looked as bored as I thought I would be.  I walked right up to him and asked him if the party was as bad as it looked and he conceded that it was worse.  We launched into non stop banter... snide repartee, politics and beer.  He didn't look scholarly or wordly, yet he appeared intelligent, well studied.  He had a deep sonorous voice and was tall.  We proceeded to make fun of most of the people at the party.

There was no drama, no longing or painful self evaluation.  Falling in love with Tim was effortless, a sky without clouds.  After six weeks, we talked of marriage.  Over Thanksgiving, he spent the holiday with my extended family, including Gran, whose opinion was of the utmost importance.  By February, on the 15th to be exact, my grandparents anniversary, he proposed.

All my days spent with others, agonizing over a future with this boyfriend or that... it was all a different lifetime.  I had never known that love could be comfort.  I had known passion and desire and jealousy but comfort was new.  Meeting Tim was a homecoming.

The engagement was managed by my mother.  Tim and I planned the honeymoon and the actual ceremony.  I picked out my dress but that was the limit of our involvement.  The day of the wedding the florist called me in tears because the bridesmaids freesia bouquets were dead.  I laughed.  "Buster, I'm getting married today.  I don't care about flowers".  (His name really was Buster, by the way).

Later though, as my new husband fell into a languid sleep, I curled my legs into my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees.  What had I done?

I stole glances at his profile, the set of his jaw, the droop of his shoulders.  Had I never noticed he stooped?

He drank to excess one night on our honeymoon in Key West.  I sent him unceremoniously back to the B&B and stayed downtown with a salty old sailor to watch the local Christmas parade.  I asked my new friend if he had ever married.  He knocked back a tequila and squinted at me.  Marriage is a swan song, he said and left me while the middle school band warbled through Jingle Bells.

I sat there in the bar, streetside with the parade ringing in my ears and the bar's smoke encircling my head... a swan song.  A last desperate aria before dying?

I thought of my parents and their sham of a marriage, 16 years too many.  Infidelity and secrets and pain.    I thought of the divorce rate and the friends from high school I knew who had already ended their marriages.

Befuddled, I trudged back to the room.  I could hear Tim snoring before I even reached our room.  What other wonders awaited me, I thought.

That night the wind whipped the palm trees above us and the rain lashed the windows.  I stared wide eyed at the ceiling while Tim slept.

Tim awoke refreshed.  My eyes were swollen and I had cotton mouth.  I swung my legs off the bed and watched him dress.  I've made a mistake, I thought.  How do I tell him that I was wrong, that I was overwhelmed by emotion, caught up, mistaken.

He turned and smiled at me.  He walked towards me and kissed my head, "Time for breakfast".

I watched as he inhaled his eggs and french toast.  I cautiously sipped my coffee.  I scalded my tongue.  A tailless cat brushed against my legs underneath the table and I absentmindedly stroked his fur.

I excused myself and went back to the room.  I called Gran.  I couldn't bring myself to tell her my horrible secret but she softly spoke over the phone about commitment and fidelity, loyalty and love.  I hung up and shed my clothes, hoping a hot shower would resuscitate me.

And with the water pouring over me, I realized... I was without a compass, a map, a guide... I had wandered into uncharted territory and I was terrified.  This had almost nothing to do with Tim; almost subconsciously I had made the right decision, but now, in a full waking state, I was scared of the repercussions.  Sickness?  Health?  Had I committed to a life of wealth or a life of poverty?  Was I really willing to take that chance?  I had met Tim in health and wealth... could I really put up with anything else?

When I came out of the shower, Tim was sitting on the bed waiting for me.  I'm scared, I said.  I know, said he.  You've never seen me sick, suicidal, manic, said I.  I might, he said.  I don't know if I can do this.  You can.  What if I fail?  You won't.  How do you know?  I don't, you just have to trust me.  What if I can't?  I'm willing to wait.

The truth is, you never stop being scared.  The truth is marriage is a free fall.  I chose the right partner to jump with.  Sometimes I am the one shoring him up, other times it is he who carries the weight.  And there are times when we are in tandem.

Maybe it was blind luck.  Maybe it was karma or fate.  Somehow, almost unwittingly, I walked into this marriage.  I've heard your first impression is usually right.  Solid, I thought, when I first saw Tim Gray.  And so are we.