Photo by Lisa Fotios
In the morning, as the sun began to show itself and peek beneath the curtains, I woke up with a blistering headache only a strong cup of coffee could fix. Careful not to wake him just yet, I sat up and observed the bed.
BY OLIVIA QUAIN
In the morning, as the sun began to show itself and peek beneath the curtains, I woke up with a blistering headache only a strong cup of coffee could fix. Careful not to wake him just yet, I sat up and observed the bed. The sheets were still sleek from the day before and the duvet had hardly creased. He had slept soundly through the night as he always did. I hadn’t slept much, despite our big, comfortable bed and how much I desperately needed the rest. The cat stretched out in a beam of sunlight on the floor, grasping at every inch of warmth she could get her paws on. The house was quiet, allowing me to hear the trees in our garden move in the wind, brushing against each other beyond the cracked-open window. It was an archetypal early-autumn morning.
Quietly, I climbed out of the bed and onto the hardwood floor. I looked at him. His face moved ever so slightly as he slept beneath the crisp sheets and I wondered what he might be dreaming about. I’d ask him when he woke up. He looked peaceful, lying in the same position he did every night, arms tucked neatly under his head, and legs in an S shape. I envied his comfort, his tranquility, how effortlessly beautiful he was, how he was able to stay asleep past eight a.m. It should’ve been easy for me to sleep in this house. We were surrounded by a well-kept garden with a gravel path that led directly to the ocean. The ebbs and flows of the tide lulled us like a lullaby and encouraged a slight breeze into the room. He had always loved the beach, and by all accounts it was a private paradise, designed by nature to promote rest and relaxation —but I'd never had much success relaxing. I was a light sleeper, and an early riser. Always had been. I walked into the hallway.
The night prior, over dinner with friends, I couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at Anne. She was only a few years younger than me, but still, she had a spark to her, a sort of brilliance that I feared I was lacking. He looked at her with fresh eyes, the way a boy might watch an older girl walk by at the mall. He seemed to laugh a little louder when she joked — and pay closer attention to her when she spoke. Was I no longer captivating? Had I begun to lose my own spark? I pondered it all night, and watched as the room marvelled at every elegant move she made. For what it’s worth, I didn’t find her jokes funny, I didn’t find her commentary particularly engaging, but none of that mattered. She had the room, she had him. He’d never admit it, and for that reason I’d never bring it up. But how could I ever be sure? There was always a possibility he would cave under the pressure of my confrontation. If he admitted that he did find her more attractive, or he did think her jokes were witty, what then? How would I respond? The thoughts multiplied and swirled around my head until my limbs began to feel weightless.
Whether I was projecting my insecurities onto him, or not, didn’t cross my mind last night, but I’ve begun to realize that thoughts like these have occurred to me before. Then again, trying to convince myself that his undeniable dazzlement was all in my head, a mere “projection” of my own underlying issues, is more than likely a defense mechanism. One I’ve learned is an easier, lazier alternative to accepting the possibility that I may have lost his attention to someone more interesting. My face got hot, I blamed it on the wine and brushed it off. But deep down I was terrified that they saw right through me. That I stood out among women not for my beauty, but for all that I no longer had to offer. That I was trying too hard, and everyone knew it.
I tiptoed into the washroom, trying my hardest to prevent the floor from creaking, and as I neared the gold-trimmed mirror, I began to study myself. It wasn't as though I had forgotten how old I looked, but something in me seemed to be taken by surprise anyway. I examined the crow’s feet by my eyes, and pulled at the loose skin below them. Strands of my hair had turned frizzy and grey and my forehead had horizontal lines across its surface. He and I were both showing our age, but in two very different ways. I had sunspots and bloodshot eyes and looked tired and worn. His hair, though grey, was smooth and had dimensions to it that mine seemed to lack. A permanent scowl adorned the space between my eyebrows. I couldn't apply makeup to my eyelids without having to manually pull them to get a flat surface. He would never think to worry about that. My very body was telling me that I didn't deserve to feel beautiful anymore, and that there wasn’t much I could do about it. He had never needed to be beautiful to survive, his beauty was just a bonus in addition to his mind and intelligence and character.
It had become increasingly difficult to show compassion for my ageing face, despite all the self-help articles I’d read. Any time I noticed a new flaw, I was told to embrace it, appreciate it, but how could I? Even my closest friends who insisted that my sagging face was beautiful were smoothing theirs out with syringes every other month; it was hard to take their word for it. As much as I could appreciate the story my face told, it hurt me to notice the new things. And it felt like every week there were new things. Besides, I didn’t want my face to tell a story, I wanted it to look youthful and dewy like it had 25 years ago. I had never thought of myself as an old woman, but I was being forced to reckon with the fact that that was how the world saw me, and how I was starting to see myself. I’d be foolish not to think that that was how he had begun to see me too.
I remembered watching my mother look at herself in the mirror when I was younger. The way she used to tear herself apart flaw by flaw. She left herself no room for growth or change, as though she was an anomaly for not staying seventeen forever. I remember telling myself in that moment, watching my mother watch herself so harshly, that I’d never repeat those words or think such thoughts. Of course, I didn't understand then how much of a woman’s worth would be defined by her beauty and youth. I didn’t understand then, drenched in a childlike kind of naiveté, that I too would succumb to age and decay. And that I would let it consume and defeat me, as my mother had, as her mother had, and as every middle-aged woman did, no matter what promises she spoke in the mirror as a little girl.
Why was it that we were so hard on ourselves, and so lenient with everyone else? So quick to love the worn out, used up scraps of someone? So quick to envy the very things about themselves they’ll never notice? It occurred to me that perhaps this made us weak. That perhaps this blind, jealous admiration of others was nothing but a character flaw. Regardless, I'd always been afraid that this weakness, this inability to not compare myself to everyone I’d ever known was mine and mine alone. Was it a crazy thing to begin hearing compliments as fawning? Maybe it was all in my head, and his words of affirmation weren’t as hollow as they sounded. He was a good, kind person, after all. But it wasn’t impossible that he didn’t love as strongly as I did, either. That, despite the last 25 years of togetherness, he might change his mind one day and start over somewhere else. That, mentally, he already had.
The fear of growing old and unattractive and unappealing had gnashed its teeth at every stage of my girlhood, so I wasn't surprised that it had stuck around throughout my womanhood, too. It seems the world has always celebrated the journey of boy to man — yet feared that of girl to woman. Like my mother, I learned to fear myself. Or rather, fear that he might come to fear me.
I put my hair up and changed into my robe. Peering out from the bathroom, I saw at the end of the hallway that he was still peacefully, deeply asleep in our bed. He was everything, he always would be. I suppose a part of me didn’t want to know anything beyond that.
I walked downstairs and made the two coffees.
One black, one with cream and sugar.
Olivia Quain’s short story, Chelsea placed third in our writing contest. She is a student at Rosedale Heights School for the Arts in Toronto, Ontario.