My first marriage was a mistake. And it still is.
June and I married for money. Ten years later all that was left was being married.
The crowd all at once gasped in shock as little chubby-cheeked Blue-eyes suddenly ran past the bride and groom and flung the ring into the lake, pillow and all. “Nice work, chubby-cheeks,” I muttered to the tree I was peering around the edge of, watching intently as the wedding reception turned to chaos, not once taking my eyes off the beautiful bride as I flipped open my wallet and took out the promised ten dollar reward.
Tiffany slid off her ring and set it gently on top of the dresser every night just before going to bed. She was a wife by day; dreamer, by night.
For years I dreamt desperately, passionately of escape. Had it always been as simple as just walking out the front door?
“How did you know you could marry him?”
“During breakfast I told him I didn’t like to eat bacon because the striped fatty bits reminded me too much of human flesh, and he laughed.”
In retrospect, I’d say that travelling was quite similar to using a new bath salt: exciting at first because it’s new and different but then you’ve been in too long and your fingers start to prune and get all nasty just like they do for any other bath you’ve ever taken – but I have to admit, Bill’s excitement to see Barcelona and Santorini, Cairo and Istanbul, Tokyo and Singapore, Auckland and Ushuaia and all those other places I’ve already been to not once but thrice, seems to have reignited an excitement in me that I rendered long gone. Although I desperately long to settle down and stay right where I am for once in my life, Bill gave me the gift of feeling young again – that wondrous excitement of youth – so I suppose the least I can do for my husband is pour in the salt and take a bath with him.
“Well you really made a first-class fool of yourself in there, Scott – you feel good about that?”
“You know what they say, babe – arrogance is bliss!”