She discovered that underneath his exterior appearance was an impossible, incurable Romantic- who forgot the candles, who broke the wineglasses, who lost the ring. Who made love to her with a passion that took her breath away. She had always thought of herself as a somewhat uninteresting, small-chested, thick-ankled girl. Not bad-looking. Not special. But when she was with him, old limits were pushed back. Horizons expanded.
She had never before met a man who spoke of the world-of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it- in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach.
Being with him made her feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them- as though it lay before them like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.
In the time that she knew him, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from her lamp. She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for him was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.
As for him, she was the first female friend he had ever really had. His first real companion. What he loved most about her was her self-sufficiency. He loved the fact that she didn't cling to him. That she was uncertain about her feelings for him. He loved the way she would sit up naked in his bed, her long white back swiveled away from him, look at her watch and say in her practical way "Oops, I must be off." He encouraged their differences in opinion, and inwardly rejoiced at her occasional outbursts of exasperation at his decadence. He was grateful to her for not wanting to look after him. For not offering to tidy his room. For not being his cloying mother. He grew to depend on her for not depending on him. He adored her for not adoring him.
A year into their relationship and his charm had worn off. It no longer amused her that while she went to work, the flat remained in the same filthy mess that she had left it in. That is was impossible for him to even consider making the bed, or washing clothes or dishes. That he didn't apologize for the cigarette burns in the new sofa. That he seemed incapable of buttoning up his shirt, knotting his tie and tying his shoelaces before presenting himself for a job interview. Within a year she was prepared to exchange the frog on the disecting table for some small, practical concessions. Such as a respectible job and a clean home.
-Arundhati Roy
She had never before met a man who spoke of the world-of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it- in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach.
Being with him made her feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country into the vast, extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them- as though it lay before them like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.
In the time that she knew him, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from her lamp. She was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for him was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.
As for him, she was the first female friend he had ever really had. His first real companion. What he loved most about her was her self-sufficiency. He loved the fact that she didn't cling to him. That she was uncertain about her feelings for him. He loved the way she would sit up naked in his bed, her long white back swiveled away from him, look at her watch and say in her practical way "Oops, I must be off." He encouraged their differences in opinion, and inwardly rejoiced at her occasional outbursts of exasperation at his decadence. He was grateful to her for not wanting to look after him. For not offering to tidy his room. For not being his cloying mother. He grew to depend on her for not depending on him. He adored her for not adoring him.
A year into their relationship and his charm had worn off. It no longer amused her that while she went to work, the flat remained in the same filthy mess that she had left it in. That is was impossible for him to even consider making the bed, or washing clothes or dishes. That he didn't apologize for the cigarette burns in the new sofa. That he seemed incapable of buttoning up his shirt, knotting his tie and tying his shoelaces before presenting himself for a job interview. Within a year she was prepared to exchange the frog on the disecting table for some small, practical concessions. Such as a respectible job and a clean home.
-Arundhati Roy
posted by Curly Fry | 10:40 AM
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