The
(In)significant Other
It was ten years since Michelle watched the episode of
the Newlywed Game, but a stilled image of that show glared from the television.
It was him she recorded, all those years ago, and he that now stared at her on
the screen.
The bright white color of the television barely
illuminated the room. Shadows danced across the walls and hid the picture
frames, the dated rotary dial telephone, the stained brown carpet, the piles of
newspapers scattered across an uneven coffee table. She sat on a couch, small
and worn. It’s floral pattern of purples, teals and blues were ripped, torn and
stained with blotches of urine.
Michelle sat on the permanently depressed cushions and
heaved a sigh. She never took her eyes from the man’s frozen face.
“I miss you,” she said.
Michelle’s face appeared older than her age. Her skin was
riddled with wrinkles as if it were cracking like dried clay. Her small hazel
eyes were bloodshot. Gray strands sifted between the bulk of chocolate hairs
which fell to her shoulders. She wore a sweat shirt, so ragged that the white
lettering chipped and the sleeves were shredded at the ends.
She took the remote in her hand and pressed rewind. The
figures displayed sped by in reversed motion and their voices reeled in high
pitches. When the cursive title of the show appeared Michelle pressed play.
“Welcome to the Newlywed Game!” the host yelled as he
walked onto the center of the stage. He wore a navy blue suit with light brown
shoes. It was clear he had too much plastic surgery. His cheeks were too round,
lips too long, eyebrows too high, skin too orange.
“What must he look like now?” Michelle said.
Her cat, an immense black fur ball, jumped onto the couch
and purred at her side.
“Come watch the show with me, Mitzy,” she said and pulled
the cat nearer.
“Here are our contestants,” the host said.
The camera zoomed in on each couple. At the last pair
Michelle paused the show again. There he was; just as she remembered. His red
hair was cropped, hundreds of freckles popped from his light skin and his round
blue eyes glowed with a bright spark.
But it was his smile, the radiant white toothy grin,
which always caused Michelle to stop at that very moment of the recording. He
was happy, happy with the woman he sat next to, happier than he used to be when
he sat next to Michelle. A decade prior, when she watched the episode for the
very first time, it was this smile which ceased the progress of her life. She
knew about the relationship, about the proposal and the marriage. Michelle
dealt with those facts and survived the unrequited feelings and the loss. Yet,
when she saw it, when it was thrown into her face and projected for the world
to see, her stability crumbled. In that smile she saw his life and her own. His
was one filled with partnership, family and happiness. Michelle’s was one
doomed with unfulfilled dreams and an irreconcilable lonesomeness.
She never played the recording further than his smile.
The truth proved too painful for her. Although tonight, as Michelle stared at
his face, his laugh lines, his dimples, she thought why not? Ten years had passed. Whatever happened after his smile,
it was too long ago to change. She pressed play.
The men were asked to exit from the stage. He walked off
with a care free air and that smile still on his face.
“Now, ladies, let’s begin with the first question,” the
host said.
Michelle watched his wife. She was the perfect woman.
Brown curls stretched down her back as she sat up straight, confident. Michelle
bent closer to the television. She could see his wife’s thick but muscular
legs, her sizeable perky breasts and her full dark red lips. Even through the
television Michelle noticed her perfect smooth skin, its shimmer and tanned
beach like color. She was a Barbie Doll, preserved in a box until the very
moment she interceded Michelle’s life so long ago.
“Let’s hope she looks ten times worse now, Mitzy,”
Michelle said.
There were five questions in all and for each Michelle
answered along. Both women answered that his dream vacation was China, that he
always dealt with the money, that for five years he refused to go to the
dentist and that he hogs the bed covers every single night.
“What was the day and time of your first date?” the host
said.
“February twenty-fourth at six p.m.,” Michelle answered
out loud.
His wife answered, “March sixteenth at eight p.m.”
The men returned and as expected Michelle’s lover
answered the same as his wife for all questions. They held hands.
It killed Michelle. After a decade she never accepted
their end. She loved him to such a degree that she could not let go, could not
be okay with him loving another, could not settle with the fact that her life
and his life never remained unified.
The show played on. The women walked off stage and he sat
on his heart shaped couch with the smile. Tears fell down Michelle’s face. She
heard nothing of the host’s comments. The cliché heart ornaments hanging from
the stage’s ceiling and the cupid murals on the backdrop behind the contestants
was blurred in Michelle’s vision. She zoned out the on command audience
laughter and the corny sexual jokes of the host. All that mattered was that she
lost him and he was on that stage answering questions about a different woman,
a woman he chose.
By now they probably had three children, a vacation home,
anniversary parties, special memories and countless intimate moments. For over
three thousand six hundred and fifty days they shared the same bed. They played
footsie under the covers, smacked each other awake if one was snoring, shut
their eyes as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. All of the small moments,
the one second glances, the quick touches as they passed by one another, the
whispering of feelings and dreams, brushing teeth together, the phone calls on
lunch breaks…it flashed in Michelle’s mind and cut through her heart with the
pain of a razor.
“Ohhh, it looks like our last contestant is having some
trouble answering the question,” the host yelled out.
Michelle looked up.
“Let me repeat, what is your wife’s favorite color?” the
host said.
He looked dumbfounded. The host egged him on, alluring the
audience toward laughter. He remained silent. Michelle held her hands together
and moved directly in front of the television. The cat meowed in protest at her
movement and jumped from the couch. Her face was inches from his. Her breath
moistened the screen.
“You know this,” she said. “Say it, for us.”
“We’re going to need an answer here,” the host said, now
sitting right next to him and imitating the ticks of a clock.
“Alright, well, I guess I’ll go with black,” he said.
“Black?” the host said.
“It’s the only color you can’t cover up. The only one you
can’t change,” he said, “all the colors help make the color black. Some say
it’s the most powerful color there is.”
The host’s mouth fell open into an elongated oval. The
audience did not laugh or clap. Michelle smiled for the first time since the
recording began.
“For some reason, I don’t think that’s the answer your
wife is going to give,” the host said.
“I know. I forgot her favorite color, so I chose someone
else’s,” he said.
He was not smiling the same smile as before, but rather
one that Michelle recognized and was comforted by. The grin was subtle; no
teeth exposed or mouth open. Just enough for his dimples to pop and his lips
noticeably squeezed together. His eyes were alight. They did not spark, but
they were alive, awake, passionate. He stared through the camera, through the
lens and through the television and through all the years that passed by. He
was looking at her.
Michelle stroked her hand against the screen and
whispered, “You remembered.”
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