On Mount Everest With You

ACT I

”The very essence of romance is uncertainty. ”

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

▌ ♚ ▐

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 seated on the long black leather sofa, staring down at my lap once again, at the undone top buttons of my white shirt and the black wrinkled trousers and the remnants of an unsuccessful night. I avoid the sight of her as sorrow gives way to rage. The tone of her crying changes drastically. One item after the other is being slammed against the counter but I cannot see what objects are on the receiving end of her wrath.

”All because of her. ” That last word falls from her lips and shatters into a thousand pieces between us. ”What does she have that I don , Etienne? ” she cries, burying her face in her hands to drown out the rest of her laments.

I truly never meant to make her feel this way.

I get up and work my way to the bar on the opposite side of the room. The great city of Paris comes to life outside of the picture windows that line up the walls. But it looks incredibly black and white to me. I try to make sense of the colours while she keeps on wailing about things that make sense only to her.

I think theres something beautiful about this moment. Something ironic too. I do feel bad but also strangely numb to it all. This is a storm that had been predicted months prior.

I never intended to make Ingrid doubt her self-worth by forcing her to participate in a competition she was always bound to lose. I blame the circumstances more than I blame myself. But to answer her question: depth. Cassie has depth. She has space in my mind. A story that is closely intertwined with my own.

My fingers incessantly tap on the cold exterior of the whiskey glass Im holding in my right hand. Theres a restlessness inside of me that leaves me unable to stand still for even a fraction of a second. I try to stop my mind from wandering down certain roads. But it does just that. And now Im left wondering whether shes still somewhere out there. Somewhere in the city.

I can feel my heart pick up its pace. Almost as if its trying to communicate with me using a code that only the two of us know. Maybe I can go find her. Maybe I can make this right.

I swiftly glance down at my watch. 10:42 PM.

The night may still be young if I know how to use it wisely. If I stop trying to be naive and actually employ the clarity I know I have in my possession, I can confidently say that shes at my familys chateau on the outskirts of Paris. It will take me a little over an hour to get there. I can leave now and be there by twelve. Race up two sets of stairs to find her in one of the guest rooms. Or maybe up in the attic. Or perhaps Ill see her as soon as I step out of the car, admiring the lamp-lit gardens I know she loves so very much.

I tap my foot impatiently as my mind races with possibilities and probabilities. To leave now will mean to leave Ingrid in her current state, which would be an objectively horrible thing to do. But Im unsure whether I can let another night go by without fixing a decade worth of mistakes. I fear the weight of it all might asphyxiate me at once.

So, what to do? I can bring this chapter to a close and reach for a new beginning. Leave behind a perfect wedding dress and a desolate girl as casualties of my poor judgement. Or I can stay. I can stay for once in my life and reconcile myself to the fact that the world does not revolve around me. That I do not have the right to dismantle peoples lives in search of my own happiness. That maybe mediocrity is the fate that awaits us all.

Think, Etienne. Decide. Do you have the energy to start all over again? A pearl of newfound wisdom to ensure you do not screw things over for the millionth time? Have you not caused enough damage as is?

Weve had many beginnings, Cassie and me. Each tells its own carefully crafted story. Stories that are perhaps worth reminiscing while I waste the next twenty minutes of my life deciding whether I should reach for the car keys or not.

One of our first noteworthy stories begins with us, only eight years of age at the time, stumbling upon a dead body.

The first of many.