The Accidental Matrimonial Tourist
It wasn’t until the bruises from our divorce faded that I realized I’d been a tourist in my own marriage.
She’d sold it so well: Her spiel made her heart sound like a place I wanted to visit. She might as well have handed me a glossy brochure depicting sumptuous, candle-lit meals; a cozy couch in front of a blazing fireplace; two pairs of feet resting on the railing of a balcony overlooking the ocean, two glasses of wine catching the glint of a coastal sunset. It might as well have been a multimillion-dollar ad sell, tailored to an audience of one.
I accepted the offer. Agreed to go on the journey. I packed all of my best things for the trip of a lifetime. Neatly folded my most flattering garments and tucked them tidily into a damage-proof suitcase. I packed both sexy and sensible shoes, just in case.
Then there I was: Our final destination. I looked around and saw countless other couples oohing and aahing at the sights, nudging each other to point out precious details, posing for smoochy-faced selfies in front of famous landmarks. I put my binoculars up to my eyes. I wanted to see what they saw, wanted to share it with her. But when I adjusted the focus, all I saw was empty space. When I let the binoculars drop, she wasn’t there.
I bought a guidebook. The guidebook said there were famous attractions in every direction. I went looking for them and found that most of them were closed for the season. A few had abandoned shop entirely.
In the morning, I’d wake up in a room not nearly as luxurious as advertised, my legs covered with unexplained insect bites. At night, I’d dream that she was trying to tell me something interesting, something that would interest me, but the only sound coming out of her mouth was a recording of a badly tuned player piano: Inauthentic and unpleasant. The space next to me — where she should have been, where she said she’d be — was empty.
I wandered through our marriage like a tourist: Trying to blend in, trying to look like I belonged, trying to actually belong. The sights I saw were novel at first glance. After looking longer and harder, all of the buildings had false fronts. It wasn’t a landscape where anyone in their right mind would build a vacation cabin, let alone a forever home.
I extended my stay, paid hefty surcharges and fees, hoping that the change in seasons, maybe a different angle of sunlight, would make the marriage a prettier place. Season after season, staying after staying, nothing changed.
I constantly searched my soul, looking for an adjustment I could make that would make me like the place better. I tried. I tried to stay. But one day, during one of those searches, I discovered a return ticket with my name on it in a dusty corner of my heart.
I repacked my suitcase with wrinkled clothing. I threw away the shoes whose soles had worn through from the miles I’d walked. I gathered my unmailed postcards and my souvenirs — commemorative shot glasses, drought-stricken snowglobes — and I left. I finally came home from the trip I never should have taken in the first place, and it’s so good to be here.
