Page 56 of Rock Paper Scissors
“Oh…” she said, clocking my reaction as she removed her coat. “I got my hair done.”
“So I see,” I said, taking in the rest of the makeover. Her work uniform of a Battersea sweatshirt, old jeans, and trainers—which was pretty much all I had ever seen her wear—had been replaced with a tight-fitting red dress. She looked different yet familiar: she looked like me. She even sounded a bit like me. The East End twang I’d gotten used to was gone, but then a lot of people sound different when they are nervous. And she seemed super-nervous around you.
“I wanted to look nice because I had a date… but it was a bad one. He said he wanted to pick me up and I thought he was being old-fashioned and kind, but now he knows where I live. He threatened me and got very aggressive when I didn’tinvite him in and… I’m so sorry, I don’t know anyone else in London except you and—”
“It’s okay, you’re safe now. Would a glass of champagne help?” you suggested, and she smiled with teeth that seemed whiter than before.
You’re always a better husband when we have an audience.
I felt so sorry for her as the three of us sat in the lounge, drinking our anniversary champagne, and listening to her seemingly endless horror stories about single life. I couldn’t imagine being on my own at our age. The world has changed so much—online dating, speed dating, dating apps—it all sounds awful. I had never seen it before—perhaps because she did such a good job of hiding it beneath the baggy T-shirts and old jeans she normally wore—but my friend is quite beautiful when she makes an effort. If single life is so hard for her, imagine what it would be like for us mere mortals. I felt far too old for that sort of malarkey. I watched you, watching her and being so kind and considerate. She beamed constantly as you made polite conversation, as though there were a smile quota she had to fulfill before the end of the night. I was glad that the two of you seemed to get on. As we opened another bottle, and sat and listened to her talk about dreadful dates with terrible men, I realized just how lucky I was to have one of the good ones.
“Well, it was nice to finally meet your work wife,” you whispered, as we climbed into bed. She was asleep in our spare room, and given the amount of alcohol she consumed there was probably no need to lower your voice.
“I don’t know why I’ve never invited her over before. Now I think of it, I’m not sure how she knew where to find me—I don’t think I’ve ever given her our address—but I’m glad that she did.”
“She isn’t quite what I pictured from the way you described her. She seems… nice.”
“You said that like it was an insult. Did you find her attractive?”
You laughed. “No.”
“Really? Even with the hair and heels and makeup—”
“Really, no. Besides I can’t see all that, remember? I only see what’s inside.”
“And what did you see? Inside?”
“An actress. I’ve met enough of them to know.”
I laughed. “That’s bonkers… she’s a quiet little mouse most of the time.”
“Not all actresses are on the stage. Some walk among us, masquerading as normal people.” We both laughed and you held me closer. There is something quite magical about being in a warm bed when it’s cold outside. Sharing body heat with someone you love. Or used to. But just because we still share a bed, it doesn’t mean that we still share the same opinions.
“What do you see inside me?” I asked.
“Same as always, my beautiful wife.”
You stared at me then and I felt seen.
“What happened to us?” I asked, expecting you to look away, or change the subject, but you didn’t.
“I’m not who I was ten years ago, and neither are you, and that’s okay. The only question we need to ask ourselves, is do we love who we are now? Listening to your friend tonight made me feel lonely and lucky at the same time. The success of a relationship can’t be measured by longevity alone. I love that we celebrate these milestones every anniversary, and even I smile at those news items about couples who have been together for seventy years, but I also think it’s possible to have a one-night stand that might be more profound than some marriages. It’s not about how long a relationship lasts, it’s about what it teaches you about each other and yourself.”
“What are you saying?”
You smiled. “Rock paper scissors.”
“What?”
“You heard me, rock paper scissors. If you win, we stay together forever.”
It must be a year since we last played that game. But you let me win just like you always used to, my scissors cutting your paper. It sounds silly, but I felt as if it was a sign that maybe we were more like who we used to be too.
“What would have happened if I’d lost?” I asked.
“We would stay together forever anyway, because I love you, Mrs. Wright,” you replied, slipping your arm around my waist. If it was the alcohol talking, I didn’t care. You spend all day working with words, but those were the only three I needed to hear.
“I love you more,” I said, and we made love for the first time in a long time.
