Knot for us

I look down at the Truckers Hitch in front of me and think what have I gotten myself into? It's a Thursday night, and I'm sitting in a village hall in some arid place on the Essex coast (the least romantic of all the British coastlines), trying to placate you.

For most of my adult life, it is you that has been the constant. In that time, we've grown into something; a thing that needs nurturing through Japanese cooking classes, wine tasting, and Friday night family meetings.

I suppose that's what happens when you meet young and marry because that's what everyone else is doing. You thought it would be something good for us to do together—a new hobby, something to learn and discuss at the dinner table after we've covered work, weather, and the weekend.

You knew I was on the edge. I didn't think I wanted to leave, but I knew you wanted to nip any thoughts of it in the bud. I couldn't fault your drive to keep the marriage alive, but I wasn't sure learning the ancient, yet safety-conscious, art of tying sailing ropes was the answer. Nevertheless, it was poetic; I had to hand it to you. Finding some class to teach us how to keep things from floating apart was smart.

Our teacher, Mrs. Adams, looked like she had never been sailing, let alone touched a boat before. Her unfortunate weight would surely have made her a poor sailing companion, and her obvious affection for wool clothing wouldn't have helped.

I look across at you, laughing with the elderly couple sat next two chairs down. Behind their heads is a poster from some long-forgotten Sunday school which says:

Peter 4:8 Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

I look down at my attempt at the Truckers Hitch, which looks like it would barely hold a toy truck, let alone a real one. In contrast, you are piling up beautiful knot after knot: Carrick Bends, Icicle Hitches, Alpine Butterfly Bends. They stack up, ready to be inspected by Mrs. Adams, who is already eying up your output like a golden retriever. 

At the far end of the room, a magpie taps at the window and I wish I were outside. I was taking photographs of a Tea Clipper in Malden village when you walked through the frame 10 years ago. You were this free, wild thing that flew in on a rare southerly wind, all red hair and warm laughs.

I can feel you watching me dawdle. I know you're willing me to learn, to want to be here in this godforsaken village hall filled with people 15 years our senior. I smile and look back down at my poor attempt at a Bowline Knot. It's meant to be secure but easy to undo, which feels ironic.

"Now class, you're all doing excellently well," Mrs. Adams announces with a short clap, "so we're going to have ourselves a little competition. I'll give you 5 minutes to see how many different knots you can tie. The most knots completed wins a little prize."

You look over at me with a sly smile, both competitive and encouraging. A few people around you comment that you're the one to beat. The timer starts, and the class falls quiet.

I start with an Ashley Stopper and think of all the women I've been with. You are by far the best, but I still wonder what life would be like if I were with Ashley Stopper, or some other Ashley, or anyone for that matter. Would they enjoy it when I stroke their leg like you do, when I kiss the back of their ear?

When we first married, you didn't want to settle down, but I did—or at least I wanted a home and someone to be in it when I got back every day. I was the anchor, and you gladly became my Anchor Hitch, and I loved you for it. But you complained when I was late, which made me inevitably later.

The magpie raps at the window again. No one else seems to hear it. I move onto an Alpine Butterfly Bend and think of all the trips we've taken in recent years. When we were last in Italy, we stayed in our hotel for three days, just lying tangled in sheets and room service menus. On the fourth day, you wanted to go hiking, but the Champions League was on, so you went alone.

Mrs. Adams calls "60 seconds left" and a few ladies squeak excitedly. I look down at the two and a half pieces I've made; it's probably all I can be bothered to do. The magpie taps on the window again, even harder; yet no one turns around. The noise literally goes through me.

The timer dings, and the class starts to murmur excitedly, looking around at everyone's creations. No one looks at mine. Your desk, on the other hand, is littered with knots, loops, and artfully crafted pieces that look too beautiful to be practical and too practical to be art.

"I think we have an obvious winner! What a wonderful collection, you're a born sailor, young lady," Mrs. Adams coos, and the whole class erupts in excitement, pushing back their chairs to admire your deft handy work. You smile coyly. The magpie continues to tap even more intensely on the window.

It's in my head—this ticking bomb. This incessant nagging, this thing no one can hear but me, this creature trying to drill a hole into my very being, this rope around my neck.

I erupt.

"Will you shut your fucking trap before I break your neck."

The room goes silent, and I see your eyes become wet, though your mouth is firm.

You've tried to tighten the line, but I've let the rope go slack. I try to pull it back, but you're no longer attached to the end; it only just dawns on me that the anchor has been cut loose.

I watch the magpie fly away unbothered by my outburst, and the room returns to marvelling over your Rat Tail Stopper Knot.