Seven Years

　　Marriage is a line of contract on a piece of paper (that was white and now isn’t) that binds you to another person, ideally for an eternity.
　　—A random definition born in the shower

　　The house is perfect as it is.
　　Absolutely stunning, even without the furniture—they are arriving when we come back from our honeymoon. So it’s a little empty, sure, but look at those French windows that extend from the sunroom into the sitting room, top to bottom—an endless opening into the brightness. The marble stairs with flowers carved into the wide handrails, opening up as the swirl gently comes to an end. And the chandeliers, dangling over the broad dining room where the glassware will twinkle and dance. In front of my eyes, there are two little girls galloping down the staircase, turning into the kitchen; there is a little boy jumping up and down on the sofa, singing along the soundtrack; and there’s him, his long legs crossed at the kitchen counter, chewing on his a-little-scorched bacon, and digesting the morning’s paper. Yes, the house is definitely perfect—the most promising wedding gift anyone could ask for—and I can’t be thankful enough to my parents for giving it to me, us.
　　But amidst all the hope and dreams and glittering happiness, there is something that itches. I can’t tell where and I don’t know why, but there is something.
　　That itches.

　　I have a theory, about that contract euphemized as a unity of love. It came to me in a shower, and it’s a really good theory, I would think, that describes a marriage as the following: zero privileges and endless obligations. Think about it, if we were to leave out that illusionary part about love, the only possible privileges would be the legality to have children because of my special nationality, and perhaps the fact that no one is going to judge the way-too-often after-sex hair. If you really don’t care about the envious looks about your messy hair in the first place, and you are going to live in another country anyways, I suppose I have a thinker’s block regarding the privileges of such a contract. But the obligations, oh the obligations, I don’t even know where to start.
　　So why should you ever subject yourself to the mental imprisonment that takes away your freedom on so many levels and ties you to all these rules of fidelity and marital responsibilities I’m sure he has been dying to scold me down whenever I happen to notice that businessman over there in the navy suits who happens to have a really good bodyline, or the bartender whose smile is just adorable, or the doctor with the killer hair and those seductive dark brown eyes. It’s not like he himself doesn’t intentionally turn his eyes away from that waitress or that red-haired co-worker or that nurse… but I’m sure he has been dying to ask me about the exorbitant curiosity of my eyes.
　　If anyone is actually given the time to think about whether she should accept a proposal, the only question I must ask her is: why And she’d better be able to give me an answer that’s not sappy soppy love. Money would be a good one. Status, perhaps. Or maybe you just realized that in the blink of an eye, you are the unmarried person in your yoga group approaching her mid-thirties. It feels like the right thing to do, after all the perfectly well-intentioned blind dates your parents had set you up with. It could even be the settlement to that dream broken—that of the fairytales, the princes and princesses, and the “happily ever after”s. It all seems like reasonable excuses to get hitched in a side alley church and start living a life that’s by half not really yours.
　　Love is undoubtedly the greatest illusion there is; I don’t suppose any of the world’s greatest magicians can exceed. It is almost like those delusions caused by the little piece of cancerous tumor stuck in the frontal lobe, or for that purpose any other place in your brain. You see things that are not there, you get all hyped up and excited, and you cringe at the very thought of losing it. But as often as you want to get rid of brain cancer, romantic love is cherished by all as one of the greatest pleasures on earth. Unfortunately for me, and for him too perhaps, I love him. I love him so much that I even screamed yes like those nave schoolgirls in the movies. And now there are a few carats on my ring finger, a few layers of laces hanging over my face, a few steps down an isle in that magnificent church, a few bouquets to throw (possibly only one), and two lips to kiss. It all sounds—easy, like a piece of those red velvet cakes that we’re serving. But I really believe, as convinced as I am of my love for him, that it’s not.
　　There are happy marriages, of course. We’d like to call them successful, because after all managing a marriage is so much harder than trying to pull a startup company out of the stale water market. And I am so glad I was ever exposed to such a reality where couples grow old together, where they still hold hands on the beaches, smile at each other’s wrinkles, and stop to take pictures of that enduring beauty. I did see that: I saw that in the eyes of the couple I befriended when I lived in France for a while. I suppose they didn’t lie when they said the French are romantics. They really are, but the more important thing is that what holds them together is not that line on that piece of paper or the noose-like metal around their fingers. Even I believed it when I saw them looking into each other’s eyes—it was too hard to describe, but I believed it. My gratitude that they ever existed in this world, and that I got to meet them and watch the magic happen, is boundless, because or else, I would never have believed that such things are ever truer than the fairytales. I’m grateful that I have been given the chance to hope, to dream about the previously impossible things, and to believe in the possibilities that one day some of those dreams might come true. I am glad I know.
　　But the rarity of such miracles ever happening to me, the chances of my impossible dream realized in my lifetime, is indeed just hopeless. Perhaps there are still times when I grant myself just a little bit more hope that this one might be the one and this life might be the life, but to be practical and sensible, is it really worth all the effort and risks to take a chance at trying to beat the impossible I wouldn’t want to try to be the Almighty—not just that I am not religious, but also that I am too fully and consciously aware that even playing Him will not make my senses believe in the possibilities of me everlasting through my marriage.
　　I never, and I possibly will never, believe it when they say the fights are good, when they say the fights keep it alive, when they say the fights say more than the silence. I know the silence. Very calming silence that extends from this end of the apartment to theirs, while my grandparents’ chatters flow freely on top. Call me masochistic, but I find much more solace in the silence than in any other substitution for it. I’ve always thought I wasn’t the scarred kid that I often see on TV shows—that kid who does drugs, wear really heavy eyeliners and talks trashy all the time. I wasn’t that kid. I have wonderful grades at school, I have lots of friends, and I am adored by the adults around me. I, was the perfect kid, that parents loved to compare their kids to—the happy, perfect family, and the perfect daughter. So I have always believed that I wasn’t that kid. I wonder if I am the healthy girl that I proclaim to be, sometimes. I might as well be scarred and damaged, dark and evil like all those other kids whose parents got a divorce or something. I suppose I might as well be.
　　What is the consequence of a divorce I have always been wondering about that—in the place of a child in a that-kind-of family. I can’t believe that my parents actually told me that they would have gotten a divorce if it weren’t for me. I can’t believe they were insensible enough to do that, when I didn't even think I was old enough to handle this. And I have always, always asked, why am I the one to take the fall for everything that has happened Why do I have to be the one to take all the attacks when I didn’t choose to enlist in the first place I suppose I never got the answer, but I also suppose I had made peace with that—if I am bound to be emotionally more intelligent than my parents, so be it. But what is the consequence of a divorce from the wife’s perspective
　　That would consist of, I would guess, a single middle-aged woman, sitting with her legs crossed at the bar table, sipping on a margarita. People stare at the white band around her fourth finger that seems to hint at what was there and isn’t now. They don’t know how to start a conversation. They say they’re sorry, truly sorry, as if I am sitting there to attract pity, not a one-night stand. And then they make up some silly excuse about a friend calling them to go back and awkwardly stumble over the table feet and skittle back to their table with a racing heart. Perhaps even guilt, because of their audacity to hit on a divorced woman.
　　There’s also the empty house, if you were even to have a house left. The awkward silence when your friends are talking about their husbands and you just happened to walk by. There could even be the suspicion that you are sleeping with one of their husbands, if not multiple, because divorce and possibly inebriation will definitely be the perfect excuse for all irresponsible behaviors. Even your parents, who had never been able to bring themselves to a divorce for your sake, sigh in front of your face as if you are the biggest failure of their life—what happened to that 4.0 stellar student who was going to rule the world You’d think with everything she had, she would have been able to find herself a good husband and live a happily-ever-after life, but even she couldn’t do it. Or at least I don’t believe she can do it, because every step I walk, every day I pass through, is another opportunity at tripping, at falling, and at never being able to come back.

　　There is something that itches. I’ve heard of it, the itching. I know it’s coming, very soon perhaps, I meant inevitably. And then there will be the whirlwind that happens afterwards. I don’t know why I said yes. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline. Or perhaps it’s a madman’s dance, until the reality finally makes some more sense.
　　They all peered at me with that envious look on their face when I timidly showed them the ring—they had adored him, my fiancé, the rich, friendly and wonderfully gentle man from the most reputable company. Even my parents adored him, and they bestowed upon him their best wishes for our marriage—something they finally happened to agree upon. And my friends, I suppose they would be very happy if he and I would ever get a divorce, because then he might actually sleep with them.
　　But even with all that bubbly dreaminess, there is something that itches, that will itch. They say it’s going to happen in seven years. Perhaps a few kids can keep it out of the door for a few years longer. But it’s coming—and there’s no way of avoiding perpetually.
　　I suppose in some sense, it is like death. No matter how much medicine flows into your vein, they can only cure the symptoms, and only for a little while. In the end, you can’t escape it. So the question is, I suppose,

　　Do you go see the doctors anyways

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