Different

The day started out rainy -- and promptly got worse with the arrival of the sun. It was one of those do-nothing days that led to little grunts of dismay. First, there was the problem of the cloud cover -- and then of course the emergence of the sun. "We can't go do anything," she says, and stamps her foot impatiently before the window.

Dreams of tennis and heading out to somewhere beyond the four walls are vanishing with every drop of rainfall.

"We could sleep," the husband says, except it's not in those words. It's more -- snarfle, snarfle, snore.

Late Saturday morning -- those are the times you sleep in. For him. And for her. Usually. Except -- it's raining. On a Saturday morning, of all days. "I just want to go somewhere. Don't you want to go somewhere?" she says.

There is no reply. But there is pacing. Scouring the internet. Looking for something beyond the four walls -- even if the something is just stretches of sidewalk heading out to somewhere new.

Some hours later, the sun peeps out. Glaring. Bright. More ominous than clouds. Not that she thinks that at this point in time.

"We could go play tennis," she says.

"Too sunny," he says.

Except it's not really in those words. It's more a disdainful look at the sun. A mention of not having planned for such a thing as tennis. A shuffle off to do -- the usual things. A mention of other things needing to be done.

No tennis happens that day.

"I just don't understand," she says when another suggestion gets shot down. "It's not like it's far away."

It's still in the early days of matrimony. Hard days, like traffic not always certain of the road rules. Yet hopeful. Magical in their own way with the sudden intersection of interests. A passion shared and explored together. A show watched till all hours of the night. A game that is discussed endlessly long after the sun has gone down. Somehow, this is what marriage is -- a combining and exploring of the world until it all comes alive, made new by that sense of two eyes looking at the world as one.

Not tennis though.

"Don't you remember when we were dating and we would play Spider Solitaire and Monopoly for hours?" she says at some point. Maybe it's that rainy day. Maybe it's another.

"Yeah," he says.

"Whatever happened to that?"

It's not till later she learns -- he actually hated playing Spider Solitaire. The various Monopoly games collected over the years are now collecting dust in the closet. And the one hike that was taken pre marriage is something that is grumbled through during the honeymoon.

The experts -- that is, the people who tried to prepare them for this thing called marriage, warned them about the painful merger that seemed riskier than skydiving (if statistics were to be taken into account). There is even a funny video of a skit. A couple excitedly stating, "We're so different!" -- and then crying to their parents about it later -- "We're so different!"

It's one of those things that makes textbook sense -- until the day is sunny and the tennis courts remain vacant. "We're so different," she thinks, and wonders why no one warned her that tennis should have happened before the tying of the knot, the settling into the usual, the slow recognition of this reality called "different."

The years pass.

It comes with more navigation. New discoveries. Painful ones. Fun ones. And then -- a baby, a sunny day, and a birthday weekend in winter.

It's a rather balmy winter Saturday, sunny even.

"Don't you want to stay inside?" he says.

She stops. Just for a second. The newness of marriage is long past. A long-time friend once noted that honeymoon phase as the period you do anything for the other person. A part of her wants to go back to that.

But it's a sunny day. And there is walking to do. The baby needs to see trees, sun, things that are beyond the four walls.

"I don't," she says.

He groans. "Fine," he says, and glares at the sun, more vampire like in his indoor affinities and pale skin, his nocturnal habits and love of meat than she'd ever anticipated.

She walks out the door with the baby and into the sun. Really, it's not that she doesn't love him. It's not that he doesn't love her. It's just that sometimes, love is a merger of passions, a unity of similarities, and other times -- it's a bon voyage, a recognition that you're two stars jetting around in a different orbit, composed of different properties.

"We're just different," she thinks -- and wonders how she'll break the news later about what it means for that surprise family vacation they'll take one day where there's nothing but tennis courts and sunlight.