Random creative writing from earlier this year.

My last few Easters have been very weird. I suspect this one to be no different: 

Looking back, there was no reason for me to have married Chris, as seeing that I did not love him. You should marry someone because you can’t bare not to see them with each passing day. You should marry someone because they make your blood, figuratively, boil. You should marry someone because the idea of their smiling face next to yours in the morning makes your heart melt. Not because they ask you to.

            But what could I have done differently? And how would that have affected everything? The course of my life would have surely pivoted and I would not be sitting where I am, today. My mind almost wants to say that I might be still residing under my mother’s roof, listen to her same old news talk shows, dreaming about life elsewhere and knowing it had to be better, somewhere.

            Chris Gracin was my first boyfriend, only boyfriend. He wasn’t exactly good-looking, but I have never considered myself to be much of anything. I have just known that I am, and sometimes people tell me I am good-looking….

            “Oh Jane, but you’re lovely!”

            And I do not believe them, but it’s nonetheless, sweet.

            He had long hair when it was fashion and he chopped it all when Kurt Cobain shot himself. Or Courtney shot him, or the government murdered him, or the dude from the Who he pissed off really just took his vengeance. He never played guitar; he was a pianist, in actuality. Chris has not touched a piano in years, as far as I am certain.

            “They’re expensive,” he whines when I say anything. So I don’t bring it up. And I don’t play Fiona Apple, ever.

            “Why would I want or need a piano when we have a mortgage?”

            And kids?

            “Not now, Jane. Maybe not ever. I like my freedom.”

            “I know,” I say in return. This is the only thing I will ask of Chris:  I would like a son or daughter. It’s finally come ticking into my brain, as I suppose is the inevitable landmine each women steps on at some point or another. I’ve picked out names, held onto pillows like they were infants, stared at the models for Baby Gap until I can imagine them in my own house, squealing under my roof. Although it wouldn’t be my house and it wouldn’t be my roof. It would be Chris’.

            “I like my freedom, but I love you,” he’s fast to correct. Then he kisses me on the cheek, just as fast, and goes back to whatever it was he was doing before.

            Has he ever cheated on me? Do I care? Not really. I’m sure he has. He goes to these Happy Hours every Friday and Thursday night. Comes home so drunk I can feel the heat radiating off his face, like the air in the summertime bouncing off the cement. Sometimes we have sex. I close my eyes. Sometimes he just plain goes right to sleep. I roll over.

I gave up on this, of course. Happy Easter!