His love

{Writer's note: I wrote this because I inspired by a few of the lines in a song by Tegan and Sara entitled, 'My Number'. Anyone who knows the song, may be able to recognize the lines in this story. It didn't turn out like I thought it would, and it's a bit scratchy from my first-drafting...but, it'll do for the purpose and what I want to convey. Tell me what you guys think.(Especially Sarah, my Tegan and Sara buddy.)}

No one could love me like he did. When I married him, I did it for love, the promise of love, the fleeting feeling of love that I didn't have. I wanted to catch it in that moment, to embrace what others around me felt so strongly of. The satin, the lace, the wedding vows, I always thought that was what love felt like; the smell of a fresh bouquet of flowers, the warmth of his hand in mine, having someone to wake up next to every morning. It was true that no one could love me like he did. The problem was I could never love him like he loved me.

The beach house was a wedding present from his company. The card on the front door read, “From all of us to you, welcome to the neighborhood.” From this, one would be able to deter that the man I had married was rich in the numbers that he carried daily in his back pocket, and those which remained safe in his bank account. One may imagine that I married for money, but that’s not true. I married in the interest of finding love in a man who just happened to be very rich. It was my bad fortune that I happened to find love through other sources.

In the winter, I became his wife. And in the summer we flew to the beach house, and I would continue to be his wife, while he continued to be a prominent business man, who came home Tuesday through Thursday every week, and sometimes on Sundays. I learned the art of cleaning a house, cooking meals, and applying, and reapplying fresh coats of lipstick. I had hair appointments on Mondays, back massages on Fridays and on Saturdays the wives of the neighborhood would invite me over for tea and coffee on their verandas. I only went to the beach when my husband came home, and then he would play with his boat, while I kept up my tan.

My thirst for other things grew stronger, while his adoration continued to grow. It was my luck that business kept him gone. It was on a week of his continued absence to do work that I found something to keep my attention while he was away.

He was young, this boy, which kept my attention, which held my thirst. We would lie on rose-colored sheets and he would count my goosebumps as I ran my hands through his hair. He would state names of great lovers in the past, and how our love trifled them all. We would spend hours in the ocean, bathing in the salt of the earth’s sweat and in our own. I would save him from drowning, and he’d promise me he’d never go away, that he’d always stay. I can’t recall his name, or even how we met, but I do know that we spent more time in that beach house and on that beach than I ever did with my husband.

I learned the art of making love outdoors, cooking grilled cheese and macaroni out of lust, and applying and reapplying my lipstick to press to his lips. I cancelled my hair appointments to let it grow long, I got all my back massages from his fingertips, and I told the wives on Saturdays that I was much too busy to attend.

When my husband finally did come home again, a week later, he found a different woman than he had left. I was changed. He brought roses. I placed them next to the garden daisies on the table. I told him that I was going out for a swim, and he touched my wrist to stop me, looking dead into my eyes, he said, “I’ve missed you.” I smiled and walked outside.

More than usual, he loved me those next three days. There was breakfast in bed, flowers every day, and chocolate in the shapes of tiny hearts. But I wasn’t in love with him, and the tokens did nothing, but grow my lust for breaking away from him. I didn’t want a beach house, or to cook and clean, or endless hair appointments. I wanted to sleep on the beach, to carry my life in a suitcase, and to let my hair grow to my waist. And I was going to tell him, if he hadn’t found out for himself on a Saturday, when he came home as a surprise with red roses and tiny heart chocolate.

He dragged me out by the wrist, in front of the wives with their tea and the men with their boats. My young love watched, with doe eyes from under the sheets that my husband and I had picked out, as I was led out the beach house door captured by the shock of his arrival.

My loving husband threw me onto the sand, in nothing but a satin slip. The flowers and tiny heart chocolates were still resting in his hands, and I wondered if he would throw them like he had thrown me, and if the petals would slip away and be carried off by the tide. My young love stood like a shadow on the porch of the beach house, his eyes resting on the ground. Somehow, I had forgotten that my love was like that of my husband’s; unrequited and much too bold. I wondered if love would save me, or if it was too late for love to be anything.

My husband, who had been screaming nothings at the sky, grabbed me by the hand, dragged me to the shore and said, “Maybe you don’t love me, but you’ll grow to love me even more.” I glanced at the ocean, at the rage in his eyes. The waves were strong and crashed like thunder; his eyes echoed his promise and the waves called out like sirens in return.

The strength of the tide pulled me down, and he used the advantage. It seemed as if he had a pact with the ocean that screamed a twisted revenge. The waves crashed again onto the shore and my view was clouded by angry water and dirt. I choked under the pressure as the ocean’s desire pulled me back with it, but his hands were gripped now to my shoulders as I lay flat on the sand and they held me through the torrent. And then I felt the cold relief of air and I breathed too deep, choking again but he held me strong against my internal struggle.

He screamed something at me but his voice was drowned out by the crashing of waves as they fell upon me and I felt the stinging sensation of a thousand lightning bolts. A sharp rock cut against my jaw and another at my cheek. He pulled me up and I gasped for whatever breath I had left. I thought it would be love that would save me, but I found that the only love I knew had disappeared and I was in the hands of a man who loved me too much, who loved me more than my life.

His face looked worn and tired but his eyes were alive with something horrifying. He pressed his face close to mine and yelled, “Could you ever love me?”

I saw regret flash into his eyes for a moment. I closed mine, because I had no regret to share. I whispered, “No.” I could never go back to being his wife.

I felt the plunge of being submerged in the cool water again. This time I didn’t mind so much the pull of the tide, as it tugged me deeper into the ocean. It was gentle. And then I realized that he was stilling holding on to me, pulling me with the tide, deeper out into the ocean. The waves threatened his grip, deeming to thrash my tiny body like the rocks and shells they carried in their wake. I opened my eyes as I struggled against him, and against the waves. I could see his face, distorted through the water, twisted against his desire to continue to love me, even through the things I had done.

It was over. His love was too much to keep me, and mine was too strong to stay. I felt the loss of air and I struggled to cease the fight. Love couldn’t save me from drowning, and I couldn’t save myself. I closed my eyes, let the water fill my lungs, the waves crush me under the pressure, and his grip to be the last to hold on to love.