On Mount Everest With You

ACT I

”The very essence of romance is uncertainty. ”

― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays

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Paris, France

10:42 PM

SHE wants to be anywhere but here with me. It is written in just about every inch of her. She has become a shell of a person, only this person is a stranger to us both. She can remember who shes supposed to be and neither do I.

Ive drained her of her energy, of her sense of self. Her eyes open and close to reveal her absence. An empty gaze, a heavy mind, the dryness in her mouth that sees her words die inside before they
e given the chance of ever making it out. She stirs the tea that sits on the counter in front of her. And stirs and stirs.

Its cold by now, Ingrid.

She is a piece of abstract art inside of my mind. Sometimes I struggle to recognise her even though Ive probably seen her face over a million times. Its like my brain refuses to remember her.

The waves of her strawberry blond hair have become dishevelled, and I can only faintly recall how they had been in a beautiful and neat arrangement at the start of this evening. Her figure is hugged by a skin-tight black dress that was never given the attention it commanded. In another life maybe I complimented her on her appearance, maybe I removed the dress, and we made love and life continued on with that mediocrity that it promises to so many people.

But this is not another life, and we cannot run from the white gown that has been carefully positioned on the sofa across from where Im sitting. Outspread, to avoid any wrinkles. Likely because she will have to return it to the store from where it was bought and not because she will be able to walk down the aisle with it.

It feels as if our troubled gazes are physically incapable of looking away. In all truthfulness, I don think Ive ever been mocked by an inanimate object so cruelly before.

Her mouth opens. A couple of seconds go by before she makes a sound. ”Maybe we should cancel the wedding. ” The words struggle on their way out—partly because she has gone hours without using her voice and partly because she does not mean them.

I look down, experiencing a heaviness in my chest that makes it difficult for me to breathe comfortably. My vision is just a little bit blurry as I look at my lap and entertain the foolish idea that maybe if I try hard enough, I will be able to pretend that Ingrid and the dress never even existed. That none of this ever happened, or perhaps it happened only inside the twisted chambers of my imagination.

I try to envision my apartment without them. Its a beautiful place. Modern and vast and expensive. It lacks personality but its not like I have much of that anyway.

But Ingrid hasn gone anywhere, and the dress did not miraculously combust. ”I think we should, ” I mutter, removing particles of invisible lint from my black trousers and trying not to wince at the shame that clings to my every word.

The truth is, out of all the women Ive loved in my life, Ingrid is the one Ive loved the least. Why I ever got down on one knee will remain a mystery to me for the rest of my days.

I immediately regret looking up at her. Her face falls almost theatrically. There is crude anguish behind those beautiful blue eyes, and it threatens to spill in the form of thick teardrops.

Those are not the words she wanted to hear. She was expecting outrage and desperation on my end. She wants me on my knees, pleading and begging and feeding her empty promises.

Please, Ingrid, I will love you better this time around. I won be secretly in love with my childhood best friend behind your back. I won spend the entirety of our marriage wondering what would have happened if only Id dared to be with the woman Im truly in love with.

She desperately wants me to save her. But I, quite frankly, do not mind watching her drown. Perhaps that makes me a terrible human being but Im at a point in my life where that has been established already.

I remain