My Only Wife Read Free Page A

telling the story was to include herself, and in denying herself that option, she needed to think of a new way to look at the situation. She had to tell the story once in her head so that she could manually erase all the traces of herself.
    When my wife talked with these people, she tried never to pass judgment. She tried to bring out parts of their story that she felt were important and that she thought they were avoiding.
    My wife laid on the couch and listened to soul to ease her mind, to exempt herself from the stories of the world outside, to allow herself to become what she considered an auditor.
    She’d have to let the voice teach itself to her, so she could learn how to speak it.

6.
    M Y WIFE TOLD ME A story once, when we were not yet married, about a man who wore little wire rim glasses framed by long hair and a matching auburn beard.
    My wife said this man offered her his story easily outside a general store in some western town.
    She’d gone on a road trip by herself for an entire summer. She assumed there wouldn’t be many young people driving through Wyoming or South Dakota. She figured people would leave her alone for a while.
    My wife loved the sidewalks of the city, but one summer she wanted to leave them behind so she could come back to them.
    She wasted time while she took this trip. She lived out of her car and spent large portions of the day leaning against it in parking lots, taking in the dusty sunlight and the families spilling in and out of their vehicles.
    One morning sitting on a bench outside of a general store, she was greeted by a friendly mutt. She set her bags down and petted the dog, but soon the man with the wire rim glasses came up behind the dog apologizing.
    My wife said it was no problem. She loved dogs and hadn’t seen nearly enough of them lately.
    The man said he had hitched in the night before.
    The man said to my wife, “I’m the kind of man who likes to buy a woman a cup of coffee to get to know her, no expectations. I’m a rambler. I like to meet as many people as I can.”
    My wife said, “I like coffee.” And they were off.
    My wife told me, “It became clear quickly I was never going to get this guy’s story. I don’t think the man lived a day of his life. He spent all his time defining who he was, like it was a possibility. If I told this man’s story, it would be about how incorrect his own version was.”
    My wife told me what this man had said, this rambler:
    “I’m the kind of man who likes to live from day to day. I’ve never had a steady job, and I never intend to have one.”
    “I’m the kind of man who loves women serially. I meet women and write their name on my hand, to remember. When we say goodbye, I spit on my hand and rub the name off. Off my hand, out of mind.”
    “I’m the kind of man who likes all sorts of music. I’ve played with a lot of bands in my travels. I can play any instrument your posse’s lookin’ for.”
    “I’m the kind of man who makes instant friends with people. I’ve never met someone who could resist my charms.”
    “I’m the kind of man who tells it like it is, no matter who it hurts. I’m chronically honest. I can’t help it. I have a keen eye for the truth and I lack the tact to not call it as I see it.”
    When my wife told me this story, she shook her head, smiling. “He was so far off. He never told me a single true thing. I had never met someone so set on identifying himself with so many different labels. He didn’t tell stories; he told me what categories he fit into. When we were done with three or four cups of coffee we walked out of the coffee shop and I petted his dog as I said my farewell. He tried to convince me to let him stay in my car for the night. Obviously I refused. ‘I’m the kind of man who takes no for an answer,’ he replied. The man and his dog walked a few paces away before he said, ‘You think you have something on me. I can tell by that smile. You think you have all the answers.