Wrong.
(1985)
A man embraced his unfaithful wife as the train they were on shuddered. She laughed; he faked a smile.
In the falling snow, under the cover of the musky night, they were making their way home. They were on the Dockland's Light Railway; a slow tram like thing which meandered atop a levitated platform in East London. Every time the door opened, and the cold air swept in, he would reach out his hand to try and catch the drifting snow flakes. A sprinkle or two landed on her hair, melting, when he chanced to stroke her curls. She breathed onto the window pane, then with her finger tips inked out a message professing love in the condensation made drawing board. She smiled again; he faked a laugh.
On the horizon, he could see the three tall sky scrapers dominating the classic Wharf skyline.
How was work today? he asked, nonchalantly out of daily habit, and not taking his gaze away from the world outside the moving train.
Oh I didn't buy much actually, she answered. It didn't matter that they were having two different conversations. I did love the London Eye though. We should go sometime, together, we really should. You'd love it. Ja-
She bit her lip. Had she said too much? Then, she wondered whether she cared still. What do you think about marriage?
He looked up. The topic had turned to an excitable one. It concerned the very subject he wanted to talk about. What about marriage?
Oh, I love you hubby and all that, she giggled. But all this adultery in the papers recently got me thinking. Don't get me wrong. I will chop your balls off if you get any funny ideas, she said sternly and truthfully. But the institution of marriage thing.
Once upon a time you required it to be together.
But not any more though. Well, if either of us were religious or believed in the wizard in the sky, then maybe you do. But in our case: why did we get married? Why didn't we just carry on?
Her husband touched his ring without her noticing this. I think you said something like: let's not fuck around. Let's not be ephemeral, let's be something permanent.
Oh how unromantic. Was it that rational? she asked, not recalling that conversation.
Indeed, they hadn't had that conversation. It was he that was filling in the gaps. Did you not like your wedding day?
Of course I loved it. The big moment at least. No, I'm talking about the institution of marriage. Where you're locked into a long term contract.
Does that not appeal to you?
Well I guess that's the kind of relationship to have a child in. But, honey, let's be realistic; divorce rates being what they are, marriage is hardly a long term thing any more. And there are plenty of people that have marriage-less relationships for five, ten, twenty years, and beyond. So that argument is debase.
He shrugged. I don't understand what you are driving at.
I'm just saying I don't get the point of marriage any more.
His heart sank. He wished that he could argue what he was feeling inside. He wished he was more eloquent at putting an argument together.
She looked away. She hated when he did that; hated when he didn't treat her as an equal; when he stopped arguing because he thought she wouldn't understand. She was more educated, and brought home the greater pay packet. And still, he had this way of making it seem like she was the lesser of the two. Why did he do that?
You can have all the colours, the qualities, experiences of a married couple without being married. It's a lot cheaper, I'd say, provides greater equality, and allows more freedom, she argued more passionately.
You can't have the title though. The cross-cultural, societal recognition of being married, he replied, as he eyed a man staring at his wife's legs. Then he looked at his own reflection. It was the figure of a man who had lived through a hundred winters.
So you get married for society?
He paused, taking a moment to reflect and adjust to the rhythm of a well expressed thought.I like the idea, that you are my wife. Legally, spiritually, societally, culturally, we are together, and the entire world knows and understands the nature of our relationship without need for explanation. From a hotel receptionist, who sees just our name, to a tribal chief in the Amazon jungle. It's like a smile. It's the same everywhere. There's something to be said about the power of something so very basic. I can't explain why. I wish I was smart.
Smart enough to explain it in words that I can understand you mean, she muttered.
I'm not patronising you. I think you have a point. And I think you made your point better than I. You win and you don't even realise it.
I win! I win. Huh!
Don't sulk.
I'm not sulking.
I.. never mind, he said. The realisation that he was in public had just smacked him in the eye.
In a fit of irritation, she got her phone out and texted her buddy. She let her husband know that she was going clubbing tonight.
In this weather? he asked. There was a time, when she would have asked if she could go out clubbing, or whether he wanted to do something together. Now, she just let him know that he had to cook his own dinner. There was also a time, when she would make sure to tell him, which girlfriend she was going out with. But that had long stopped. She often came home - not just boozed up and smelling like it- but also having lost her underwear somewhere. And then last Autumn, he had seen her at a local club snogging a stranger. And somehow being witness to the action in person, made the public kiss worse than the sex behind closed doors.
He'd suffered an existential crisis then; though he couldn't put a label to it. He knew that things could not carry on as they were, and knew what he was expected to do. But love, it made him weak, and he took a blade to his own masculinity, his right to be angry, his right to fairness, to not be cheated, in the hope that the spring would follow winter, and that she would come clean herself. Alas, in the meantime, it hurt, and he could not bury the tears in an unmarked grave, for the murdered always knew the crime committed against him. Following this, he withdrew from the light of emotion itself. It was as if he was locking himself away from the world. As if with each passing day he was walking down another step into the cellar.
She giggled like a school girl. Okay maybe not. In fact I probably might just go to Gemma's house now. We might just watch sex and the city and get drunk on champagne or something. Don't worry, she has a lovely bed in the spare room. I'll be alright.
She was taunting him. And it was an exhilarating feeling. She felt guilty afterwards, but the rush was a blinding experience.
More people got on at the next station, and the area around the door, which had been empty but for the two of them, was now packed. A man behind her shifted his weight. She felt a little disgusted by the man pushing himself against her. Her husband was looking out the window. He looked desolate. She felt sorry for him. Deep down, she still remembered that she had once loved him intensely. And that he was a good man. He wouldn't cheat on her or throw her out on the street.
She felt the stranger rub against her in a more deliberate way. Sensations ran their automated course in her own body, and she grew moist. Its the most natural thing in the world, she thought. She leaned away from her husband and pushed her self back onto the stranger's groin. The sound of the train filled her attention span. She then reached for the stranger's hands. And put them on her hips, so that he could rub against her better. She felt sexy, alive; her heart raced; but unlike the man behind her, whose feet were trembling from the adrenaline rush, she was in control. She wanted to bring his hands up to her breasts, but that was too risky. And in that moment of risk assessment, the guilt overwhelmed her. No, not here. Not now. She pushed the stranger away abruptly.
She moved in closer to her husband and, wrapping her hand around his waist, hugged him. He was angry... Or sad... She found it harder to tell these days. She moved in for a kiss; he made no effort to reciprocate, so she kissed his cheek, and leaned in closer. His hands lay still in his pocket. What are you thinking? she asked.
A man tried to jump onto the track yesterday; I read in the paper.
Why? Suicide?
Yes. His wife had a car crash, and consequently forgot him.
Forgot him? Like through a concussion?
I don't know. They had a two year old child. She could remember the child, and where they lived. But she forget him.
Woh... What did he do?
Well, he tried to rekindle their romance. But you can't force these things; she really didn't know the person she was sleeping next to, she said, and wasn't attracted to him in the least bit. So he tried harder. Took her to all the places that meant something to them; showed her the wedding photos, honeymoon videos.... Nothing. She tried her best, and cried many a long night; she felt sorry for him, but he had to move into the spare bedroom. They separated a year later. Then she met somebody at work, and they clicked instantly; she fell head over heels for that guy, and is now engaged...."
"Hmm... "
"Story lines wrong ain't it? But what can you do?
She said nothing whilst she tried to absorb the story. They entered Canary Wharf station, and in an effort to change the subject she asked what the point of having stations that were a only hundred metres apart was.
I don't know. But I best get off here, and get stuff for dinner.
She motioned to join him, but he stopped her in her tracks.
Where are you going? I thought you were going to your friend's house?
You're angry at me.
I'm not; seriously. I'm not doing this for you. Its me honestly. Go. Enjoy yourself.
She grew angry at him but didn't say anything. Instead, she thought about the night ahead. In fact, she might just make it a 'girls' weekend.
The door opened and he stepped out. They locked eyes in an intensity that hadn't been there for a long time.
Goodbye, he said smiling.
You can be a prick sometimes. You know. A right asshole.
He paused for a moment. Such is life eh?
At the next station, her train was stopped by an announcement. There was a buzz in the air, as news filtered out. Somebody had tried to jump onto the tracks. It was only when she went down the stairs, to the street outside, that she suddenly froze with fear. She dropped her bags and ran for the station down the road. She could see a crowd gathered at the station. She pleaded with them to let her through. But she was a voiceless soul amongst the hullabaloo of the crowd. He was dead, they said. He was dead.
She finally found reason in her panicky state and called her husband's phone. He didn't pick up, and after four rings, it went to voice-mail.
