We never saw your door but if we did there’d be blood stains, black sheets, carved warnings. And your bathroom mirror might be all lipstick, smudges and smears, threatening messages, that you’d not heed because you use your laptop until the last minute, scream at the screen when it dies despite five minute warnings and one click saves.
We expect eternity for us and our parents.
So when you die we know you were marked although we never saw it. We scroll back through moments like episode descriptions in TV guides, on websites, deciphering what we missed, when we missed it. We can’t claw you back how we can ex-girl and boyfriends, the way we woo old friends on Facebook and new ones through work, on buses, and our success rates for those things aren’t remarkable or notable so resurrecting you is a bet we’d not place, a lucky dip with little hope in. Everything we know of gambling we learnt from Brad Pitt in life and then in movies in that order because public mistakes are more interesting than fiction.
And when you die we don’t realise at first. We savour silence like it’s moments we’re happy to end when you walk in. But you don’t. Raising the dead’s a horror movie, Bible story, medical miracle or everyday occurrence, but you’re declared dead, you were declared it; the epitome, hopeless.
She married you, not the professional knight in shining armour, who does what you’d expect of him: swooping and saving, proposing on alternate knees when one gets tired, buying more than one meal a day for a woman. She married you but it’s not an important distinction. And it’s not a real marriage anyway, if there is such a thing, and it’s not a construct, tradition, imposed by men, invented by them, so they could conquer another thing, now that countries are given back and their sculptures are fought over and sent to their countries of origins and there are no real discoveries, especially as the ones about the universe are insumountable, to your mind, anyway.
There is no win in your head, no decision, action, that could make this divorce right, so it has the desired effect – that she’ll go on a date with you. She basically committed fraud, marrying you so you could scrounge the insurance she doesn’t need yet. Ask yourself, would many women go to the lengths she does to get you medical attention? And the list’s not long, if only she’s on it, then do whatever the fuck you can to stop her. Knights are fairy tales written by men, also.
Let’s create new histories, other stories, in which the unexpected happens, the unlikely is true.