Sparks!

Ulterior Motives

It's been 13 years (13 years, 4 months and 17 days to be exact) but who's counting anyway? Thirteen years since you stood across from him, eyes burning with a passion that you desperately hoped looked like love (the ever-lasting kind) under the twinkling lights of the wedding arch as you waited to say I do. Marriage is an elegant agreement built on an extensive yet fickle contract of love and support, making up and conquering, sharing lives and aspirations. And trust. Luckily for you, you've always found it easy to fake emotions, orchestrating your body into each performance. Aspirations, however, last longer than the strongest wave of warmth from being deeply kissed.

*

You didn't take many things with you when you left, just the bare necessities, the things you couldn't live without, the things that were explicitly yours and not his, the things that were explicitly yours and not the complicated ours. There wasn't much of ours to begin with. You were adamant in proving that you were not with him for the money, for the fame, for the fortune. The chiseled, ruthless businessman you married, who snuffed small businesses off of the face of the earth with strategic plans of attack, escaped unscathed from your tidy divorce. Are you sure you don't want anything? Your efficient lawyer Sarah had asked once it was all over. But you were too busy looking at Ivan. He was laughing with his lawyer. Laughing. As if he hadn't just lost his "better half'".

He was the perfect man though, you knew that from the beginning. The only man that you thought was worthy to make you swell, like those large pink balloons that clustered your home every Mother's Day as a child, with real love, growing, living inside, tucked closely under your heart.

*

Same rustic chairs, same Persian rugs, same canopy bed, same marble kitchen, same art-adorned walls, same old high-rise apartment that towered over the city. The first time you laid eyes on this place you saw it as a symbol of your dreams, the things you wanted and the things you were striving to achieve. You spent hours splayed on the floor working on assignments, sitting on the balcony drinking wine with friends, living freely in this space that was exclusively yours. Now, your old apartment looked dull and out-of-date, just like you. You feel awkward and unease in your own domain, the place you reigned over like a queen, protected from unwelcomed family and friends like a warrior and loved like it was an extension of yourself, keeping it clean, chic and savvy because your environment needed to reflect who you were. The intellectual, confident, determined, clever goddess that you were.

*

Return home late (you're a busy HR manager, Ivan understands this). Set the table with the takeout you brought home. Drag Ivan from his home office. Share dinner together. Slide your toes along his calf and play with the tiny hairs at his nape. Lie in bed afterward, stock-still. Listen to Ivan's heavy pants patter out into deep, full breaths. Then pray. Earnestly. To fall pregnant this month. Don't tell Ivan that you long for the perfect combination of his intelligence and perseverance with your tanned features and maybe his full lips. A lovely little girl to shape and mold, to pioneer and love.

Repeat tomorrow. Less flirting, more praying.

*

You watch as Ivan navigates among the CEOs of multimillion dollar companies, demanding their attention with his charismatic smile and smooth velvety voice that makes every word that falls from his lips feel like a gentle caress. You're nervous as you think about ways of approaching him and you're annoyed by it. (You weren't nervous when presented your graduate thesis or when you interviewed for your current job). You snag another glass of champagne from a nearby tray and make your way over to him. You offer the glass to him with a charming smile that gets even broader as you feel his eyes roam down the curves of your body in your stunning blood red silk dress. He takes the glass, eyes dancing with mischief.

And what do I owe you for the drink?

A date. Tomorrow night at seven. Indulgence.

What if I have plans?

Then I suggest you cancel them.

*

In the quietness of your apartment, you think: of Ivan crawling into your large canopy bed and fending off its coldness with his warm, comforting body heat, of splaying crates overflowing with takeout food across the bed, only leaving a tiny space for you and Ivan to huddle together as you feed each other from random crates, sealing each bite with a kiss, of little Lily waddling across the floor, dragging her favorite stuffed animal behind her, who Ivan will scoop up into bed and settle in-between the both of you, he'll give her bits and pieces of a fortune cookie before she takes it from his hand and feeds herself.

It's been 13 years, 4 month and 17 days since your wedding. One day since the divorce. And you're being tormented by a crazy concoction of fierce flames of anger, striking sadness and a cold cold emptiness. Your performance is over. Was flawed. Will never see daylight again. Had somehow transcended into being real without your awareness. Is over for good.

Take a bow. (Not that you really deserve it). Now forget about it. No more what ifs, I should've or maybe I can....

*

Think about it every day for the rest of your life.