You Won't See Me

I notice emptiness in her gaze—devoid of love, sorrow for our losses, or joy. In my memory, Angie mentions her discontent, and I urge Angie to roll over, I start focusing on the present. My wife regards me, unimpressed. Beyond her, snow falls gently. Small white flakes dance in the cold wind, adrift like us, yet destined for a place we may not desire.

I exhale, taking a seat beside her, aware of the cause of her unhappiness, though she remains uninformed. "Quit drifting into deep thoughts. You always do this, gazing into the distance as if I don't exist!" My wife lashes out, her demeanor harsh and confrontational. "Every now and then, we're certain we're meant for each other. But when I need your support... I know it's because of you, your disdain for my flaws."

"I don't hate your flaws," I respond, realizing the insincerity in my words. Summoning courage, I add, "I love you, flaws and all."

"Loving someone and being a good husband are different. You can love me... and someone else. You can't be a good husband if you're not devoted to me." She turns away, seemingly truthful.

"Good lord," I mutter, closing my eyes. Angie would reprimand me for letting my home life deteriorate—it's painfully evident.

"When I call you up, your line's engaged," my wife tells me.

"Oh, come on, do I have to answer every call? Am I not allowed to talk to others on the phone?" I retort.

"I've had enough. So, act your age! I know who you're talking to!" Her anger flares up, and I huff in frustration.

"All the time we've lost, it's hard to find it. My memories of us. They fade," she continues.

"Honey, please," I interject, hoping to avert a full-blown argument. I'd rather retreat to read and be alone.

"I will lose my mind! If you won't see me, you never see me. You always look past me, like I am nothing but the first wife. Soon to be replaced," she declares, tears forming in her eyes. Suddenly, she becomes angry, hitting herself in the face. "Damn it!"

"Paulina, you need to stop doing that to yourself!" I implore.

She gazes at me with teary, puffed eyes, her left cheek red and inflamed. I rise from my seat and head to our small sink, grabbing a rag and running it under cold water. I let the tap water flow through my fingers for a moment before snapping back to reality. Turning off the water, I wring out the freezing cold rag, water dripping heavily into the steel sink.

Returning to Paulina, I hand her the rag to alleviate the pain she caused herself. She mumbles a thank you. Her red eyes unnerve me, and a wave of guilt crashes over me. I divert my gaze outside to the falling snow. Each snowflake drifts by, a fleeting memory, a fresh recollection. I close my eyes, envisioning the snow descending outside. Do they truly exist if no one witnesses their descent? Their existence is not one observed by anyone, how can they exist?

"You're doing it again!" my wife exclaims, dabbing her cheek. "Do you not hear what I say?"

"I do. I do. You're upset with me having friends," I say, realizing I've said something insensitive. God damn it.

"God, you're unbearable," she spits venomously. "Yet, all I want is for you to be here. I mean really here with me, not in the clouds thinking about HER."

"Okay, I'm not fighting with you," I say, blowing out my cheeks, air rippling through my lips. I stroll into the living area adjacent to the kitchen and plop myself onto the couch. I hear Pauline curse to herself. "Fucking bastard," she yells out. "FUCKING BASTARD!"

I hear her storm into the room, and I look up to see her towering over me with a violent look in her eyes. I start to get up, but she forcefully pushes me back down.

"You're going to listen to me," she says, her eyes redder than ever. "For once. You'll actually listen to me."

"Okay," I say cautiously, eyeing her as she walks past me and stands in front of me, hands on her hips. Her black work dress is stained with something powdery, probably makeup. She raises her chin and begins to exhale forcefully.

"Listen to me," she repeats. "I don't know why you want to hide. I can't get through to you. I feel as if my hands are tied here!"

"I don't do anything to make you feel that way. You're just taking it out on me," I respond, my big mouth getting me into trouble again. "Listen, before you—"

"No, I'm talking! I-I-I don't want to stay. I-I don't know what to say anymore!" she exclaims, looking down and exhaling. "Look, I love you. I always will."

"End of the conversation then?" I ask, meeting her eyes, and she shakes her head.

"It's like you don't care. BUT I guarantee that you care about HER all the time!"

"She's just a friend. Everyone else is just a friend. You worry too much," I sigh, reaching for the remote to watch something else.

"Stop! You always look to turn me away!" Paulina grabs the remote and hides it behind her back.

"Is this a game or something?"

An eerie smile comes across her face. "Come and get it, then."

"No, I'm not playing any games. I'm done with that!"

"So, is this the reason why you're leaving me?" she says. "Hmm, I can see it now. Screw her and slowly ditch me. Am I wrong or am I right?"

"Wrong," I say weakly, haunted by memories of Angie. "So very wrong."

"I try to understand you. But time after time, you refuse to listen or explain yourself," she continues. "I wouldn't care if I knew what I was missing."

"I'm here. You're not missing anything!" I insist, feeling discontent on my face. "I don't know what to say anymore, Paulina."

"We argue. We fight. We bicker all the time. The days we spend together are few, and they're full of damn tears!" She rubs her eyes and sits down on the other side of our L-couch, covering her head in a way that suggests sobbing, but I can't see. We fall silent for a little while. The TV remains off, its black screen a reminder of what else I could be doing—

"STOP FUCKING DOING THAT!" Paulina yells, appearing hysterical, her eyes wide, tears running down her swollen cheek. "Stop, please, baby."

"Okay, I'm here," I say, putting a reassuring arm around her. She pulls me into a hug, a long one that lasts a bit longer than I'd expect. She pulls away and smiles, then walks to the bedroom, leaving me alone. I sit back down and turn on the television.

After enduring a tedious half-hour of watching something that failed to capture my interest, I start to drift into a light slumber. My head begins to nod forward...

“Hey, honey, wake up,” Paulina's voice interrupts my sleep. She's now adorned in a pink lounging robe, her hair flowing freely instead of being tied up in a bun. Her face is bare, devoid of any makeup, presumably washed away by tears and soap. “You fell asleep.”

She sits down next to me, reclining on the couch. She sniffs, twitches her nose, and wipes away the liquid coming from it. Picking up the remote, she switches through the channels, eventually settling on the Fishing Channel.

"So, are we good?" I ask her. She doesn't answer, engrossed by the giant fish on the screen. "Paulina?"

"I don’t know if we’ll be okay," she simply says. "I don’t know." Turning her head towards me, her expression is neutral, accepting, and calm—emotions she wasn’t displaying before.

"I want us to survive. I-I…” I don’t know what to say. I have to tell her the truth. “Angie…”

“Angie? Who’s that?” She asked, her expression changing slightly. “You know an Angie?”

“I did.”

Confusion spreads through her face like a wave. “You did?”

I nodded, not sure what to say. “It seems so long since, Paulina, since you’ve been gone. I mean, you’re never here. Never present either.”

“Who’s Angie?” She asks again.

“I just can’t go on,” I say with a weak sigh. “You won’t see me. You won’t see me for who I am. You never did.”

“What are you saying? That I never truly knew you?” Paulina asks. “That I married a man I don’t know?”

I look away from her, contemplating the truth, deciding to reveal it.

“I was married…before…you,” I say, not looking at her. “To Angie Moore. Angela Moore. A teacher from Boston.”

“Boston? Teacher?”

“We took our vows at twenty-four…” I say weakly, my emotions getting the better of me. “I have memories of her that haunt me every day. I’m not seeing anyone, nor have I been having sex with anyone but you.”

Silence.

“You kept this from me. Why?” Paulina asks.

“I still love her. But I love you,” I say.

“Why are you with me then? Go be with her. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t love me fully.”

“She’s dead, Paulina. Two years after we married, cancer. Who knew?” I manage a weak smile. “I never told you because I didn’t know if I wanted to.”

Silence again.

“I’m sorry…” She grasps for words; I can see her head working overtime. “Nobody deserves that.”

“I didn’t think I would marry anyone else. Nor would I love another. Then I met you, in the cafeteria of the hospital,” I admit.

“My uncle was sick. You were the nice doctor.”

“I don’t cheat on you. I never would. I’m simply haunted by the ghost of my past,” I say to her.

Relief. She doesn’t look upset. She looks…sad.

In the quiet aftermath of our shared revelations, Paulina and I sit on the couch, enveloped by a heavy yet understanding silence. The glow from the Fishing Channel flickers on our faces, casting shadows of the complexities that now lay bare between us.

Recognizing the need for honesty to mend our relationship, I decide to take a courageous step. Getting up from the couch, I head to the closet in our bedroom, where I carefully move aside some boxes on the top shelf. There, tucked in the corner, lies a small memory book—a brown photo album filled with moments from a chapter of my life that I've kept hidden.

Opening the cover, I reveal a photograph of Angela, captured in her church dress with a warm smile on her face. Her golden hair impeccably set—a snapshot from a Sunday, a moment frozen in time. Sighing, I bring the book to the living area and place it in front of my wife.

Together, we flip through the pages, unraveling memories that have long haunted me in isolation. The images bring a sense of relief as I share a part of my past that had burdened me alone. As we reach the final pages, we encounter photographs of Angie in her hospital gown and images of her in the hospital bed, the despair of her final days palpable.

“She still looked so full of hope, even in her final days,” I manage to say, feeling Paulina's reassuring hand on my leg. Together, we turn to the last page—a poignant image of Angie with her hair gone, her eyes sunken. A frail form clinging to life, yet in that moment, our love eclipses death; it feels eternal.

“I see you now,” Paulina says, and as tears well up in my eyes, she adds, “I see you.”

“I love you,” I mutter, the weight of the truth finally spoken. “I love you.” The sincerity of those words hangs in the air, marking a pivotal moment of vulnerability and connection in our shared journey.

Tomorrow will come, and the wounds will heal. Time will march on, and I have only one option, to march with it. I look at Paulina, her beauty shines through. I smile at her. Knowing everything can be okay in the end.