Here’s the thing. When you marry someone, you’re also marrying all the possible future variations of that person. And here’s the scary truth. There’s no way you can foresee what those future versions are going to look like. And, now that we’re speaking of terror, you don’t even know what your own forthcoming metamorphoses are going to look like either.
Picture this: A thirty-year-old woman sitting in front of a computer screen. Sparkles in her eyes. Her mouth, semi open. Her heart, throbbing with desire. The man who has been her husband for two years notices her nervousness (excitement? horniness?) across the living room. “What are you doing?” he asks in an accusatory tone. She jumps, startled. “I thought I was alone.” The man, the husband, frowns. “I live here, too, you know. What were you doing?”
The woman has no other option but to reveal what is it that is shining on her browser tab. As he thoroughly studies the images and words, trying to determine (quickly!) the gravity of the situation, she shrugs, embarrassed. Shit, caught. A grid of houses for sale on an almost-virgin island far away from the place where they currently live. A carousel with pictures of an open-floor kitchen, a bedroom with big windows bathed in daylight, and a luscious garden. Behind the fruit trees, the backdrop of the ocean. “It’s for our retirement. Wouldn’t it be nice to retire here, together?”
“Ale, you do realize you’re just thirty, right?”
That’s when I knew. Oh my God, he’s going to divorce me.