There’s a girl, I used to call her ‘my first wife.’
In my head only. Probably because it may sound like an offence to my actual wife. My first, current, and the only wife I had.
That other girl, she was never my wife. I never proposed. I never proposed seriously. Well, with a ring. Not that I never proposed meaning it. I just never proposed properly, at the time our relationships weren’t ruined by the things we did or did not. And after that, there was no real reason for both of us to do that.
Actually, our acquaintance started with me proposing to her. Out of a joke. A silly one. I never thought, I’d actually want to marry her. She was an internet stranger. A random internet stranger. A random internet stranger I never planned on meeting in person.
She declined, telling me she would have considered me only if I’ll approach her with Porsche Cayenne, and so I was relieved to get the decline I expected, and asked for. I did not know what Porsche Cayenne is, and had hard time imagining the model, its appearance.
Even these days, I am not too sure I can distinguish a Cayenne from a … say, Panamera. I made an attempt at googling any other model, and I recalled the model only because of the silly Ukrainian song with a similar name.
The only thing that changed since then is that at that point in time I couldn’t even imagine what a thing might cost. I didn’t care. Yet, I knew it was expensive. These days, I don’t care. Yet, I know it’s not too expensive. Not the most expensive thing you can waste your money on. However, I don’t see myself buying such a car. Not anytime soon, for sure. Not to impress someone, that’s just not even in the realm of what I might think of.
She was fucking with me too. As much as I was fucking with her.
Here, I mean the figure of speech about the Porsche, not the literal meaning of fucking. Even despite we were fucking with each other indeed.
I never proposed.
And by the point I might be ready to, our thing was severely damaged. Probably not by us only, but also by the society we were part of. For her, I was never the one who could keep her in that place of struggle. And I cannot blame her. Why would I want to keep her in the place of struggle in the first place? I love her, I want her to be free and happy.
In some parallel universe, she is my first wife indeed. All those memories, they feel like some very distant past, a lifetime ago, a few lifetimes ago.
But it’s not what I’m saying here right now.
It’s this name I issued, my previous wife.
Thank you very much, my dear iPhone, but I do know that I want to write ‘previous,’ not ‘precious.’
Technically, she’s just a girlfriend, among many others. And that’s why I have my objections to that. In my head, she’s different. She’s my wife too, just the one who did not become to become one. In this reality.
I proposed my wife without having a ring too. I know, she does not like it now, and she’d preferred me to have the one. But for me, it was as much about not having the fucking ring, as it is for women about having it. I asked her about the marriage, rather casually, but meaning it. And she said yes. That’s what I think is beautiful. I did not want fucking restaurant and a sparkling wine glass with a ring inside. What a distaste.
I won’t be too surprised if her husband just asked her the very same way, having no ring and no Porsche parked outside.
Oftentimes, I catch myself on wondering: would she ever make this attempt at giving me some special place in her life? On a deathbed, would I be remembered as just one of her boyfriends? I would really like to know. I would be disappointed to learn she’s not going to give me a special place.
It’s always heartbreaking, when you give someone some special place, but they are too arrogant to not consider you for the same thing.
But I quickly come to the conclusion that it’s irrelevant.
Hoooney, it’s irrelevant what you think! So-ooo-rrrr-ry!
It’s irrelevant because it doesn’t change what I feel. And I feel like she’s the wife that didn’t happen to become one. It’s incorrect to say she’s the first, and that would make my actual wife second, which she won’t like. And I won’t like it too, now. And our son, he won’t like it even more.
Yesterday, he forbid me to be the first. He’s the one who’s first. Always.
At least, now I’m forbidden to bike faster than him. He explicitly forbid me to be first when we’re on bikes.
It’s an offence, and he won’t allow me to play with his cars, and his black Porsche too. It’s Porsche Macan. I took the car and Googled whether the name on the car is the real model. It is.
So, that’s why she’s my previous wife in my head. That does not make her ‘the wife zero’ — though she might enjoy that, as a joke name; and there’s some irony in that too — but I just feel like the number is not needed. She’s just the previous one.
I think that’s beautiful, and is a special place.
I have no idea what would happen when I’ll have a second wife, if I’ll ever have one. Maybe there’s some wisdom in not thinking of it prematurely.