You don’t know your husband. No, not really. He’s the all-around good guy, your go-to man for drinks at the shabby bar at 2 a.m. on a Sunday. Charismatic. Witty. He’s handsome, like the kind of handsome you appreciate rather than lust after.
His smile is welcoming, inviting. He makes you feel important. His eyes look into yours, make you think he actually wants to know about your overweight Scottish Fold named Pumpkin and your grandmother who nags on and on (“When are my grandchildren going to exist?”). He is thoughtful. He remembers the birthday of a coworker’s wife and buys her a gift.
He is the all-around good guy.
This is the Evan everyone sees. Grinning, considerate, hilarious Evan.
And, yet, after a long, winding drive from a dinner party full of people whose names you don’t care to remember, Evan turns quiet, lets the classical masterpieces fill the car. You watch the scenery outside as he pulls the car into the massive, marble driveway. You follow him into the million-dollar house, where you’ve lived comfortably, but not happily — you were always on the edge of your seat, waiting for a hole to appear so you could hop out of this life and find something better.
No, not better, but something worth being a part of.
This Evan, behind the lavish house, away from his posh friends and family, is quiet, keeps to himself, not a people person. He is broody and ignores you, retreats to his music room to continue composing. You don’t know when this started and you’re desperate to fix this. You want to know your own husband, the same person you stood in front of 2 years before and promised your life away, yet no effort has been made.
You don’t know what makes him laugh, really laugh, to the point when his stomach aches. You don’t know his biggest pet peeve — whether he hates when you pick at your hangnail adamantly instead of just getting up and getting a nail clipper, or when you load the dishwasher and forget to turn it on and now it’s filled with a rancid smell. Maybe he hates it when you try to cuddle beside him in bed and your cold, slightly calloused feet brush against his calves. You might have noticed his eye twitch when you laugh raucously at something that wasn’t too hilarious, unabashed and mouth wide open. You don’t know if he loves you anymore and is in this simply because maybe he’s the kind of person who hates breaking promises, even the promises made to an omnipresent being. But you don’t know for sure. You haven’t heard the words he hasn’t said. All you hear in the lavish house is the press of the piano keys.