It’s usually hard for people to understand the relationship my husband and I share. It’s even harder for me to try and explain. The two of us are more different then I can even begin to describe, yet I’ve never in my life met someone I have so much in common with. The main thing is, we’re in love, and my “job” could never change that.
From the outside, people either wish they had our love, or can’t understand how we live the way we do. Our life is hard, but somehow we’re great at it, great at loving it anyway. Money is tight, but time is even tighter. We buy almost everything at goodwill or the Salvation Army and we live off of Mac-and-Cheese and Ramen. We only stop working to spend time together, which isn’t anywhere near as often as it should be. The floor of our tiny apartment in the worst neighborhood in the city is covered in laundry we never have time to do and more crumbled paper you’ve ever seen in one place at one time.
My writing is our way out. I write while he drinks red wine and when I’m finished, he reads, and at the end of every story, we’ll put on the old records and dance until one of us caves in and strips the other of his clothes. Without fail, this is what happens every time, we strip each other down and make love right there on the couch or on the floor. I find it hard to refer to our sex as anything other than making love, no matter how dirty it gets. It always ends the same way, curled up
in each others arms. He’ll stroke my hair, and talk in the softest voice I’ve ever heard about how we’re going to pay for the rent this month, or his upcoming job interviews, how he’s “really got a good feeling about this one.”
Being accustomed to this life is more than “making due” it’s more than “dealing” because I know one day when I look back I will miss these times. When I look into his eyes, those green and bronze, fiery jade sparkling eyes, I see our future. I
see the townhouse in the suburbs, the fenced in yard, the tire swing, the kids, the dog. All of it, it’s there. Our mattress on the floor replaced with a four-poster, the dirty laundry replaced with toys, and our pantry consisting of real food.
But past all this, I see us on the couch, drinking red wine and listening to old records. He’ll stroke my hair, and talk to me in that same soft voice. The conversation replaced with talk of PTA meetings, and what he’s cooking for dinner tomorrow when he get’s home from work.
Those are the days I’ll miss these ones, and I’ll remember seeing our future like this, deep in his eyes. I’ll remember it was his love that got me through.