I first saw my wife on the twenty-sixth of April 2003, sixteen years and fifty-seven days after we were wed.ÌýIt was strange; she was rounder than I had imagined, podgy even, and her earthy brown dress did nothing to flatter her figure.ÌýSomehow I imagined I'd married a kindly Marilyn Monroe, who had forfeited a life of glamour and luxury to instead spend her days caring for a poor blind fool like me.ÌýClearly this was not the case. We were out on the patio when it happened.ÌýI was sat on one of the green plastic garden chairs which I had always imagined to be white.ÌýRosalind was pottering around in her usual manner, watering the hanging baskets.ÌýI knew this even before I saw her doing it.ÌýFew people I had met led a more silent existence than Rosalind, but sixteen years is a long time, and I had come to recognise the small, almost imperceptible sounds which she did make and translate these into her actions.ÌýI knew the added scuff of her feet when she was carrying something substantial, the way she quietly squeaked when reaching up high for things, the faint rustle of her hair as she brushed it.ÌýIn fact, I would say that at any given moment I could detect exactly what it was Rosalind was up to with great certainty, providing I was in close enough proximity to hear it, of course. I turned my attention to the garden.ÌýIts dimensions came as no great surprise to me (I had walked its perimeter a thousand times, after all, and knew better than to trample Rosalind's beloved flowerbeds by straying too far) but its grandeur certainly did.ÌýMy senses were dazzled all at once by the spectrum of colour on offer: hundreds of flowers, few of which I could identify as I was not close enough to be able to smell them individually.ÌýI was astounded.ÌýSo this was what Rosalind had been doing for all these years.ÌýI turned back to her, as though in an attempt to connect this floral splendour to my bland and dowdy-looking wife, and found that she too was looking at me. "Are you okay, dear?" she asked, her head tilted curiously to one side.
I thought it over for a moment.Ìý"Yes, I'm fine.ÌýI like your dress." It was a lie, of course, but it seemed an appropriate one. "Oh.ÌýThank you." With this she went through to the kitchen to refill the water canister. I sat alone for a few moments, admiring the things around me.ÌýIt was a pleasant day, neither hot nor cold, and the sun was breaking meekly though the pale sky, although I found it hurt my eyes to look at it.
Soon, there came a clattering noise from inside: plastic on ceramic (the watering can on the kitchen floor, I knew instantly).ÌýI also knew from the echo that the canister was fortunately still empty.
Rosalind appeared at the patio door. "What did you say?" she asked.
"Your dress," I replied.Ìý"It's nice." Of course, Rosalind insisted on a party.ÌýParties were Rosalind's thing.ÌýThe slightest excuse would have her calling the neighbours and leafing through cookery books, handing me an endless stream of limp balloons to inflate.ÌýOn these occasions, I felt like little more than an oversized oxygen tank, although I knew the reason why Rosalind loved these get-togethers so much; they were a break from looking after me. So it was that the next day the house was busy with people, and the air rife with speculation.ÌýRosalind made a strawberry cheesecake, which everyone agreed was delicious.ÌýI'd forgotten just how red a strawberry was, and it made my head swirl to be eating something of such vivid colour.ÌýI found it easier to look at other things until my plate was empty. Once the formalities were over with, and the guests had grown weary of discussing my old eyes, I decided I wanted some time alone.ÌýOn the way from the living room I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.ÌýYesterday evening, I had spent the best part of an hour in the bathroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror utterly naked.ÌýI prodded and poked myself, pinched at my soft, gelatinous skin.ÌýI squeezed my loose cheeks, ran fingers over the soft bags beneath my eyes.ÌýRediscovering my body in such a manner was something of a glum task.ÌýI had not seen myself since I was a thirteen year-old boy, taut and supple and predominantly hairless. Who was this old man standing before me now, copying my every action?ÌýIn the hallway mirror, I bore my teeth at my reflection, and my reflection bore them back.ÌýI turned and continued down the hall, through the kitchen and out into the garden.Ìý It was another fine Spring day.ÌýThe air was still and soundless, as though the world was anticipating something.ÌýI could hear the bees in the lavender, although I could not see them.ÌýAn aircraft moved silently across the hard blue sky, leaving a fluffy trail of white behind. The faint sound of church bells came trickling over the garden fence.ÌýIt was Sunday.ÌýSoon the house would clear and the tidying up would begin.ÌýThen Rosalind would be flitting around for the car keys, ready for my appointment at the hospital.ÌýThey would shine lights into my eyes and ask me questions.ÌýDoctors.ÌýNurses.ÌýLavender. Strawberries.ÌýAnd I still couldn't believe it about the garden chairs; they had always felt white.ÌýI raised my chin, facing the sky once more, and closed my eyes against the sun. |
