"That which is overdesigned, too highly specific, anticipates outcome; the anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of grace."
-- William Gibson, All Tomorrow's Parties
"Til Death Do Us"

May 22, 2005.

Mm. More nonsensical poorly written tripe that doesn't go anywhere.

I r teh awsumz.

My wife is 5'8", auburn hair with golden highlights she thinks she needs but doesn't. She's kept herself fit after two kids and has a stomach that - minus the Cesarian scar - would put most women half her age to shame. She reads murder mysteries to the exclusion of all else, eschewing any form of romance novel her friends foist upon her. She has, over the years, become a passable cook, though that chore has always fallen primary to me.

We've been married for twenty-six years. After a quarter century of being with someone, you get to know just about everything about them. She knows why I still turn my shoes upside down and knock them out, even though I haven't been near a desert or a jungle since our boy, James, was in diapers. I know why the first day of every summer, she goes down to the duck pond at the park, and stays there until she's gone through a full loaf of bread.

She knows how sometimes I just need to walk to clear my head. And I know how sometimes whatever is troubling her can be dispelled with a touch, or a certain look. You know someone this well, you could get to thinking they're an open book, a transparent personality, but you'd be wrong. And if you aren't wrong, if your spouse is totally known to you, you have my pity.

My wife, she can still surprise me on a daily basis if she's of a mind. Her wit and thoughtfulness far surpass mine, and have gotten me through some pretty tough times. She's the kind of woman who leaves you notes, randomly, in your wallet or in whatever book you happen to be reading. She doesn't always leave them after the bookmark, either, so you might not find them unless you read it again, later. Sometimes you'll be standing in the line at a grocery store and go to get your check card out of your wallet and there she is, in her tight cursive, "I love you."

Or, "Remember the Chevy?"

Which is how our daughter, Jenny, came to be. Or anyway, the where of it...

And standing there blushing under the flourescents, in line with a bunch of strangers you see every couple of weeks food shopping, who you know just enough to say hello to in the freezer aisle, it's hard not to remember why you fell in love with that woman.

No matter what you think you know about somebody, there's always some hidden depth, some corner you can't quite see around.

Like how I know if someone - who I will never meet, never talk to, will never even know their name - doesn't do their job, my pretty wife who raised our two exceptional children and volunteers every weekend at the mission, she'll get activated.

And even me, who knows what her birthmark looks like and why she hates it, and how she takes two sugars in her tea, and how that spot right behind her ear is how to get her in the mood no matter what, even I can't know what she'll do then.

I wasn't told. But I can infer.

It's hard not to see certain patterns in the news, especially with my training. And that training, it runs deep. To the marrow.

Sometimes I worry that I'm not good enough for my wife; that I never was. But thinking about that faceless, nameless guy, how if he fucks up, what she could do...

I guess, in a lot of ways, with the world being what it is, I'm exactly what she deserves.

Me, being what I am.

God help her. And God, forgive me.

[ cue flashback ]

May 23, 2005 7:31 PM

Finally back to writing!

Posted by: at June 1, 2005 6:25 PM
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