Love, Eternal

To Whom It May Concern,

We met studying abroad Rome. She tripped on the Spanish steps, I dropped my books and ran to steady her. Many young women would have been embarrassed to have stumbled in such a public venue, cameras clicking in every direction. Claire threw her head back and laughed. She stood, one foot bare, the other in a flip flop, laughing at her own clumsiness. I don’t have any pictures of her from that day, but it’s woven into my mind, the sunlight catching in her golden hair, glowing like a late-summer halo.

I stood a step below her, wordlessly holding her other sandal. I was too awestruck to wonder who wore flip flops to trek through a city of cobblestones. All I knew was that the size eight-and-a-half leather thong shoe in my hand belonged to my future wife.

For lunch we ordered pizzas, Peroni for me, Fanta for her. Claire told me that afternoon that she had always disliked the taste of alcohol, and throughout our marriage, she never touched a drop. I’ve never been a big drinker myself, though I did indulge occasionally. Claire stuck to her fizzy drinks, anything fruit flavored being her favorite. Though she did declare that afternoon that Italian Fanta knocked its American counterpart out of the park.

We missed our afternoon class that day, whiling the day away wandering the city, our hands occasionally brushing but never intertwined. I was falling hard, and fast. Claire was a little bit more reserved, maybe more level-headed, preferring not to rush things. I already knew I would do anything for this woman. And if that meant taking it slow, I would crawl on hands and knees to her, as long as she let me bask in the glow of her company.

I left Rome with my heart full of memories and my phone full of pictures. I wondered what returning Stateside would mean for this blossoming new romance we had found, that I wanted so desperately to nurture and grow. Claire and I sat together on the flight back, and while watched the clouds out of the window I stared at the headrest in front of me.

 We were on our way back to real life. Claire had only been in my life for a short time, but I already couldn’t imagine the rest of my life without her. Though I had never feared flying, and our takeoff was by all accounts smooth, anxiety was crawling in my gut. I was only twenty-two, but I knew this girl was the best thing to have ever happened to me. If things fell apart with Claire, there would be no one else. It was dizzying, the realization that I was in love with her. That I would be for the rest of my life.

At that moment, Claire’s hand moved shyly across her lap, her fingers lacing with mine. My heart steadied instantly, but my head rushed with hope. Maybe, just maybe, she loved me too.

Graduation was a whirlwind. We left student housing behind and rented an apartment together. We scoured thrift stores and discount outlets to turn it into a home. Claire shared her dream of having a home with a floor lamp. This woman, this gorgeous, ethereal being, dreamt of having a floor lamp. We found the perfect one at a garage sale, plastic but mimicking wrought iron, with a cream colored shade. Her joy when she changed the bulb and plugged it in, casting a soft glow over our living room, almost brought me to tears. What a blessing it is, to love and to be loved.

It's always said the first year of marriage is the hardest, but to me it was idyllic. There was no major clash of personalities, no screaming over household chores or groceries. That’s how it had been with me and Claire from the very first day—we simply fit together. We complemented each other. Where I was high strung and hot tempered, Claire was down to Earth and rational. When Claire had her melancholy spells, I knew the right reassurance to whisper into her hair, the way to rub her back, kiss her forehead.

She worried about these moods of hers, that one day one would simply swallow her whole. That she would fall into a darkness so deep, she couldn’t find a way out of it. I promised to always be her light.

It snuck up on me, maybe on both of us. But looking back on it now, I think Claire saw it coming. She withdrew into herself. She spent her free time at the gym, running on the treadmill and listening to the same sad songs on repeat. She grew thinner, started drinking only Diet Coke and counting out her Cheerios.

Though it pains me to admit, I was horrified. She was moody, snappish, prone to outbursts and tears. I began to resent her misery. This was not the carefree summer girl I fell in love with in the Eternal City. My Claire had been replaced by an anxious waif who weighed herself every time she went into the bathroom. And her mood depended on the number that lit up on the screen.

Its an ugly image, the bitter husband. But I complained to my friends and at work: my wife was no longer fun. She had become boring, needy, and self-obsessed.

I didn’t understand. She had always been slender, but she ate. I told her repeatedly, in various stages of anger, to just snap out of it. This was a problem for young girls and teenagers, not married women. Secretly, I began to hate her. Though she thought measuring out table spoons of coffee creamer was control, it was the opposite. She was spiraling.

It was right about that time that a new woman started at the office. Her name was Lilly.

Right from the start, Lilly turned heads. She came in for her first day, dressed very professionally in a white blouse and black knee-length skirt, shiny black pumps on her feet to match. But her hair. Long, sun-kissed, red curls that tumbled down her back. Her eyes were bright spring green, and alight with mischief. She was assigned to be my assistant.

We exchanged numbers. I was, after all, her boss. And for the first two weeks, that’s all it was. A boss and his new vibrant, young assistant.

It was Friday night and I was alone with Netflix. Claire had taken to going to bed at eight, knocking herself out with cold medicine and sleeping pills. I was angry, I’ll admit, to be in my late twenties, still handsome (or so I thought) and to be stuck at home on a Friday night binge-watching television. Claire, now consumed with calories and fat, refused to go out to dinner, and she had never been a drinker, as I mentioned earlier, so that was that.

From the counter, my phone vibrated. I ignored it, thinking it was work and could wait until Monday, but then it vibrated again. My curiosity was peaked, and I got up off the couch to check my phone.

It was Lilly.

Hey, she wrote, You up?

I confirmed that I was indeed up, and I stayed up until the sunrise exchanging messages with her. And we were just getting started.

Monday afternoon after work, we went to a hotel together. I ran my hands over her body and through her hair. She kissed me so deeply she stole my breath. I tugged her bra strap and traced constellations in the freckles on her shoulder. And I betrayed my wife.

I will be completely candid with you, whomever you are that this may concern. I have heard of men cheating on their wives, and being hit with remorse like a runaway train. I felt no such repercussions. If anything, I felt like I deserved this—a second chance at happiness with a woman who appreciated me.

We began seeing each other regularly, dinners out and evenings in various hotels. Claire, so deep in her self-destructive hole, didn’t notice a thing. Lilly knew I was married, and said it didn’t bother her. She’d take me any way she could get me. But that’s the thing she didn’t know—she didn’t have to take me anywhere. She offered me her hand and I took it, and went willingly on my own.

At home I became more frustrated with my wife, because now I had a point of comparison. A woman who behaves normally. Who doesn’t have crying fits in the middle of the afternoon, who can enjoy a dinner out without having a full-blown panic attack. 

One evening I came home from Lilly to find Claire under a pile of blankets on the couch, sobbing over nothing in particular. My rage finally broke free. She didn’t work, didn’t clean, didn’t cook, didn’t smile. Her body was all sharp angles and bruises. I told her I couldn’t stand to look at her, couldn’t stand to be around her. For the first time in our marriage, the apartment became my house and I told her to get out of it.

She never argued. She simply removed herself from the couch, black workout gear skin tight on her spidery limbs, and left.

The next day was the incident.

I will address this letter again to whom it may concern: I didn’t hurt my wife. I was angry and resentful and so caught up in my anger and resentment, her inability to fulfill my desires that I neglected her needs. Claire needed help. I can see, in hindsight, it was more help than I was able to give. But at the time, I didn’t even try. I wanted her to shed her newfound misery like she shed her gym clothes every morning. And I was selfish, I took a lover on the side to revive my own zest for life when the woman I made an oath to lost hers.

So I admit, I failed her. As a lover, as a husband, as a friend. As a decent human being. I told her I wanted her gone. But I never, ever hurt her. I loved Claire, and still love Claire, and will love her until the day that I die. My deepest regret is the way that I let down the woman I love.

There is no chance to make it up to her now. I only ask that you let me see her, one last time, to tell her I’m sorry. Even if she never hears it.

Andrew Marsh

RE: To Whom It May Concern

From: Warden Caldwell

To: Inmate# 7896034

Your compassionate visit request has been denied. There are no special allowances to attend a victim’s funeral.