Brenda and I are draped across the couch, the newest episode of her favorite baking show clamoring for attention in the background while we scroll through our phones. Though I can’t see her screen, I know she’ll be looking at photos of far-off places, dreaming of the day we take a trip like we used to. I’m reading the news, the red arrows plastered throughout the market section making me wonder if we’ll even make this month’s mortgage payment.
Suddenly, she sits upright, as though her phone has just given her tonight’s winning lottery numbers.
Once, I might have thought such a miracle possible. I’d believed in magic. Not the sleight-of-hand that was as close as anyone came these days, but real magic. Powers that science can’t explain and maybe never would. Brenda had believed, too. We’d traveled as far and wide as we could, stretching our dollars to visit mystic seers and remote legends. When our searches proved fruitless, we made our own magic, dancing among standing stones under a full moon and holding séances in run-down hostels.
But the Real World, always written in ominous capital letters, wears us all down eventually. I’d argue it claims most of its victims in junior high. Brenda and I survived longer than most, but we eventually fell prey to its relentless pursuit. We’d overdosed on novelty until all we wanted was a routine and a sense of stability.
I remembered the day I realized I’d lost the war. We were house-sitting for a wealthy family, using the house as free lodging while we sought an astrologer that fascinated Brenda. The house was in a well-to-do neighborhood, and one Saturday morning I’d woken up early, brewed myself a cup of coffee in the expensive coffee maker, and read the paper while the neighbors sweated over their perfectly manicured lawns. Far from being horrified, I found it to be the most pleasant morning in ages. That was the day I started to dream of something different. Something mundane. Brenda soon confessed to feeling the same, and we surrendered our magical pursuit, promising to return when the time was right.
As the contestants try to persuade the judges they know how to bake a cake, I lean forward and put my phone down. “What is it?” I ask, dreading the answer. It’ll be another destination we can’t afford, inspired by an edited picture mere reality will never live up to.
She holds up her phone, glowing with a colorful infographic, all vivid reds and starkly contrasting blues. “It says here that all the cells in our body are replaced every seven years.”
I shake my head, remembering hearing the same once in elementary school. “That’s not actually–”
But she’s not listening, lost in a world of her own making. “So that means that the me that married you is no longer the me sitting here today.”
I can’t fault her math, even if her premise is mistaken. A new dread, with deeper roots than before, grabs my intestines and twists.
There’s no point arguing the details. She won’t care, nor do they address the heart of the question. “Of course not,” I say, trying to put some passion into my voice, “but that has nothing to do with the cells in our body. Every day we wake up as new people. Change is the only constant in our lives!”
“You don’t mean that,” she says as she puts her phone down. “You might know the words are true, but you don’t believe them.”
“Sure I do! Don’t we always talk about how we’re trying to improve? Or how, when we re-read our favorite books, they feel brand new?”
She stands, leaving her phone behind. She paces the room, as though trying to chase down her thoughts and wrestle them into decisions.
“You don’t believe,” she finally proclaims. “A belief gets into your bones. It shapes who you are, even if you aren’t consciously aware of it. You don’t believe in change. Not like you used to.”
There’s a tone to that last line that makes it sound like a threat. I stand to meet it. “What are you saying?”
She stops pacing and faces me. Her eyes are bright, reminding me how much I love the miracle of a woman that stands before me.
“I’m leaving,” she says.
“You want a divorce?”
In the decade we’ve been together, the subject has never come up. Even in our darkest days, I’ve always known I could count on her oath, the same as she counted on mine. Given that we’d been peacefully watching TV five minutes ago, I struggle to take her seriously, even if there is no jest in her demeanor.
“Don’t be silly,” she says, as though I’ve just suggested we drill through the earth to explore the core. “There’s no need. I’ll pack a bag and leave, just like we used to.”
“But we’re married!”
“No, we aren’t. Weren’t you listening? There’s not a single cell of that person left. Those were promises shared between strangers who no longer exist. The me standing here has made no promises. We’ve been transformed, and I didn’t realize until just now.”
“But–” Protest dies on my lips. Every part of her claim is absurd, yet it rings true. A belief, deep in my bones, just as she claims.
She steps close and reaches for my hands. The gesture is achingly familiar, a reflection of our wedding day. “It’s a metamorphosis, don’t you see? We’ve grown into something new, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Now it’s time for me to fly away.”
I look around our small living room, my eye drawn to the couch we’d just been sitting on. We’d saved for a month to buy it, and somehow, that had seemed like a great idea. We’d welcomed it into our house like it was a new member of our family.
Something shifts inside me. A boulder has been tipped, sending a rock slide through my thoughts. Once the dust clears, an attitude long buried brushes itself off and unfolds its wings.
“You’re right,” I say.
“I know,” she replies. “But now you believe, too, don’t you?”
“I’m leaving, too.” I’m not sure where these words are coming from. Her madness infects me, but I swear I’ve never seen more clearly.
Her eyes shine, far brighter than the TV spewing its nonsense behind her. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know, but isn’t that half the fun?”
“More than half.”
I let go of her hands. “Want to come with me?”
Her answering smile light the darkest corners of my fears.
I don’t have the slightest clue where I’m going.
But it’s only now that I realize I never did.
