But the trouble with a man whose wallet has no bottom is that spending money means nothing to him. That took me a long time to figure out. I’m firmly middle-class. Money means something to me, and it always has. Every dollar comes from someone’s labor. I used to calculate how many hours of work it would take for my dad to pay for something Dragos gave to me.
I stopped because the answer was too depressing.
Over the years the meaning of money has shifted to me too, and I don’t like that. It’s like I’ve forgotten something else about myself. That girl who believed in hard work, in sacrifice. My parents were always so supportive. I wanted to be an artist, and even though they’re practical people to their souls they supported me in that as long as I was serious in the career path.
As long as I went to school.
So I worked for that. And then I dropped it like it was nothing so I could hold onto him.
Still I find myself doing his bidding now, out of curiosity more than anything else. I go back up the stairs, but to my room this time, not the attic.
We have separate rooms. In the early days of our marriage that really didn’t mean anything. My room was a glorified closet. I kept my belongings there, but I kept my body in bed with Dragos.
The room is just so pretty; I’ve always thought so. I have a view of a meadow and trees, and I used to find it soothing. Now I think about escaping.
I walk to the four-poster bed and touch the dress he left there. Gorgeous and very brief. He likes me to wear as little as possible. I like to wear as little as possible for him. Driving him mad with my body is my power in the relationship. Of course, he drives me equally mad with his.
When it comes to sex, we’re aligned. It’s what brought us together after all.
It’s a green velvet that will hug my curves, and there are very high heels to go with it. Along with several jewelry boxes, and elaborate, see-through undergarments. I put it on, because this might be the last night I do something like this for him.
I put it on because no matter what, I’m still his wife.
Right nowI’m his wife.
My hands tremble as I dress, adrenaline building inside of me. I put on makeup. I style my hair. I want him to react to me. I want to feel like I used to. I want him to feel like he used to.
When I go downstairs he’s finished with dinner, and is nowhere to be seen, but I know where I’ll find him. I walk through the kitchen, the dining area, to the terrace at the back of the estate house, where I find Dragos, sitting at an elaborately set table, candles all around.
For a moment I question everything. For a moment the flicker of a candle flame is more like a gaslight.
Am I being dramatic?
Am I making up issues because I’m lonely?
Am I spoiled and entitled now?
Do I just have regrets because of my own choices?
Dragos didn’t ask me to leave university; I chose to do that. I was swept up in our passion and I couldn’t imagine caring about anything as much as I did him.
I threw myself into the fire.
But over the years it has begun to feel more like a trap. He’s become more restrictive with travel, included me less. But I put the handcuffs on.
The realization makes me want to try. Why am I planning to leave him without trying to reach him first?
The dinner he made is lovely, the dress I’m wearing is beautiful. He’s never said he doesn’t love me, I’m the one that decided because he doesn’t communicate his feelings that I’ve been wrong about them.
The truth is, he did marry me.
It has to mean something.
I move to the chair across from him and I sit down, my hands in my lap, clutched together tightly. “Thank you, I’m sorry I was in a bad mood earlier.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand.
It wasn’t nothing, but I wasn’t going to press that issue. “So you aren’t working on anything new, but has work been chaotic?” I ask.
