What exactly is wrong with me? Another silly story (hopefully) also written when I was young.
“I’m sorry.” I said to her tears. We sat across the room from each other — I, on the sofa we had bought shortly after we were married. She, hiding in the wicker chain that her mother had given her five or six years back. The late-afternoon sun poked its way through the curtains. Outside, a bird was singing.
“It’s not your fault… I don’t think,” she replied, unsure of herself. I could see that she was trying very hard to be brave — as she sat with her back straight, her mouth set, beneath her frightened eyes.
I studied her closely — examining her features, and realizing how much I had taken for granted over the years. She still had those same two eyes, that single delicate nose, and that lovely little mouth below it all. I touched my own face. I had two eyes, one nose, and one mouth also — what a coincidence. How about ears? I leaned to the side to get a better look. Two. Two for me, also, thank you.
I looked at her and realized how much I still loved her, possibly more than I had on our wedding day. Leaving would not be easy.
“You realize that I have to leave soon… for good?” I hoped that I was not the one to break the news to her — that someone had already told her.
Today marked an important point in my life. Today I was declared legally insane for the first, and hopefully last, time. Several men were waiting for me right now, outside, in their little white van. I was permitted this one last visit with my wife of eleven years.
In answer to my question, she merely averted her eyes.
Over the past couple of years, I had felt that something was different about me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. When the explanation of insanity was brought up, I instinctively knew that was the answer. I voluntarily had myself psychoanalyzed, and I could barely conceal my satisfaction and pride when the doctor told me that I had done the right thing — that I was indeed insane, but the best case of ‘functioning insanity’ that he had seen in years.
I had asked him whether it would be best to have myself committed, or to continue as I had been — a normal appearing stock market analyst. He advised me to have myself committed, telling me that it was the best thing for both me and my wife.
I looked up again and found to my delight that I could make the room rotate about the axis of my neck just by by turning my head. I stood up to see if this amazing ability also worked in different positions.
She stood up too, and I moved the room so that she was directly in front of me.
“I guess I’d better go,” I observed. She ran to me, threw her arms around my waste, and squeezed me tightly.
“I love you,” we both said at the same time. I tried it again to see if it would work twice, but my second “I love you” fell dead, alone, in the still air.
“Listen,” I told her, “I want you to forget about me, and remarry. Divorce me if you have to — I don’t know If it’s necessary, or even automatic — this is my first time.”
She looked at me, not wanting to agree, but not wanting to disagree either.
“Remember,” I added, “our little boy needs a father.” I was referring to the baby asleep in the next room.
She bit her lip to hold back tears, and I kissed her on the forehead — and then left her there, speechless, as I opened the door and stepped out into the night.