The Fairy Tale

There was the beginning.

They met one hot July: she, an easy tangle of long limps and blunt-cut locks that seemed to absorb shine from the dullest light; he, with the sweet, dark good looks that fathers warn against and mothers swoon over. They began an uneasy courtship - he was not as strong as he looked, and she was more dominating than she let on. They also lived in a time where women were beginning to see marriage as choice, not duty, and there were times she was convinced that she would never marry. But they did, at last, at a small garden ceremony; she wore no veil, only flowers in her hair, and he wore a frank, satisfied smile that their wedding photo would forever seal.

Two years later they had a child, a girl they named Alecia, or Lexi for short. His work was firmly in the shade of his father's success, and maintaining it took effort, rather than genius. Her work was between her writing and Lexi, and of the former they seldom discussed. He knew parts of her despaired because she wasn't published, but it wasn't a despair he truly comprehended. Do you want to be famous? He'd asked her once, early into their marriage, where her manuscript came back from the publishers, with a brisk, practiced note of apology. And she had only muttered something vague about how writing was her only means to be her. What was that supposed to mean? He didn't know. He only knew there were times she expected him to take over - Lexi, the house, and the other humdrum routines that life could not dispense with - while she locked herself in her study, writing into all hours of the night, writing until her eyes fogged over with fatigue and frustration, writing to the point she could not be touched, not by him, not by Lexi, not by the honest, solid world he thought they had built together.

But for most parts it was a good marriage. He was by nature a patient, nurturing man, and he could never see her as anything but innocent and entrancing. Even her tempers, her moodswings, her 'spells' - they could not soothe the swelling of his heart everytime he saw her smile. Lexi they both loved, but he sensed that her love for Lexi was fair and measured, and had none of the fierceness and impulse he remembered of his own mother. She had a sense of what maternal instinct was, but could not seem to apply it. If it troubled him he never said a word, knowing that she was special, different, and could not be judged like other women.

Even in their intimacy she was able to detach a part of herself, a secret space that he knew existed, but could not breach. If only I didn't know, he had said to her once, after one of their fights. If only I didn't know there are secret parts of you that I could never share, if I were like John or George or Adam who only see their wives as wives - perhaps I would never be unhappy. But you do know, she said, calmer now, her eyes deep like the sea, unfathomable. I do know. And it tortures me when I allow myself to be tortured. He was at his most vulnerable where they were together. This he knew. But his love for her, for Lexi - that was his antidote. His poison was being allowed to only love her on her terms.

The years blurred from one to the next. She finally published a slim volume of short stories, and he was overjoyed by her success. Then the reviews came in, like wayward children who found their way home only to hurt you. The stories, while prettily penned, struck only one note - that of unsubtle tragedy, written to milk the readers for commonplace emotions, said one reviewer. Well-written enough, but the author brought neither perspective nor depth, freshness nor excitment, said another. But surely you didn't expect all the reviews to be great, he gently coaxed. Her answer was the slam of her study room door. Mummy's upset, he told Lexi, who was turning ten in a couple of months. She's always upset, Lexi replied, eyes shadowed with hurt. Why can't she be like other mummys? Now you're just being rude, he said sternly, but his daughter's childish truth hit home.

One night he came home late. His business trip had ended a day earlier, and he was looking forward to seeing Lexi and his wife after ten days away. The house was dark when he walked in, but he saw that the kitchen light was on. He walked towards the kitchen, and as he got nearer, he heard the clink of glasses and laughter. Hers, and Petra's. He frowned, felt the bile of unhappiness rise up from his gut. Petra was a burlesque dancer, and he could not think of a more disturbing influence to have around the house, especially with Lexi. You can be such a bigot, she'd said, her eyes flashing with anger, when he first voiced his concern. And you need to be more of a mother, he'd replied, his voice colder than they both ever remembered. But despite his objections, her friendship with Petra thrived, and he knew this was another instance where her terms would be met, if not obeyed.

Now, he stood outside his kitchen, feeling like a thief in his home, a voyeur, prying into a world that was not his own. She and Petra, sharing a bottle of wine. She and Petra, eyes locked and lingering, laughing in perfect rhythm, her dark hair striking against Petra's light features. She and Petra. When was the last time she was so happy in his presence? She had become a hard-eyed whirlwind, obsessed with writing and publishing, making him and Lexi feel like they were only second best to her ambitions, and here she was, in their home, looking happier and more relaxed than she had ever been. There was a moment of dumb understanding, and then he turned to go.

Did you ever love me? He asked her, as she was packing up the remnants of her life. Lexi he'd sent to his sister's; she did not need to see her own mother leaving them, abandoning her. She gave her long, sad sigh. I thought I did. But you didn't? He needed to know. She was leaving him, but his heart still swell for her. I do love you. But not in the way that would compel passion. I can't explain this, but with you I can only be half the writer I know I am. With you I am the wife and the mother - or I am supposed to be - and all these years I have been torn by guilt and anger and the sense of failure. She stopped and turned to him, a glimmer of that old tenderness surging into her eyes. That's the space you couldn't reach, you see. You never gave me a chance to, he said sadly. It's not like that - it's something you could either see immediately or you don't. She turned away, body wrecked with sobs. And Petra could? His own tears came quick and hot. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. But love is fluid - it comes and it goes and it cannot be reasoned with. I'm sorry. That was her final eulogy, to the death of the good, solid world he thought he had built for them.

And that was the end.