On Being Married to a Scientist

At work, I'm surrounded by writing couples, poets and novelists and writers of creative nonfiction living together in what I assume to be a perfect harmony of the arts. I imagine writing desks set in the middle of gardens swelling with blue hyrdrangia, coffee in thick hand-thrown pottery, wordy conversations in worn leather airchairs set by the fire-- a world in which getting it down on paper takes priority over the mundane.

Me, I'm married to a scientist, who is such a good man. This morning he sat at our breakfast table, spooning up Honey Nut Cheerios and blueberries, while discussing the inevitable pollution from Marcellus Shale drilling. It seems that the rivers have been rising since the drilling began. Those in the Marcellus Shale camp identify road salt runoff as the culprit. My guy, wrinkling his brow in concentration, says "There's a spike in the bromiated compounds, and that doesn't come from road salt." When I ask him to explain, he uses words like hallogenated along with a couple of abbreviations like THM's.

"You are speaking in a language I don't understand," I tell him. His clear blue eyes register surprise, and he begins again, patiently seeking to enlighten me.

We've been married for a long time, long enough to include the growing of four children, the death of parents, and plenty of worse along with the better. He still looks like the boy I fell for in high school, a broad-shouldered, strong-limbed athlete. I'm sure I look less like the girl I was then, although that's who my husband still sees when he looks at me. One of the remarkable surprises of my life is that he's loved me unconditionally every day, even when I am wild-eyed with worry, spouting recriminations, sobbing until the pale skin around my eyes splotches with red welts.

Who am I to him, I wonder, in the deep quiet of his soul. I hope I am his soft place to fall, although sometimes I make myself small, threatening invisibility. He listens happily to my classroom tales, my curriculum plans, my department news. One night, while waiting to pick up our youngest daughter at the movies, we sat in the mall restaurant, drinking Tangqueray martinis, outlining a novel...me making notes, he urging the ideas past dark marks on a napkin.

At dinner the other night, I mentioned that one of my former students had messaged me on Facebook after reading one of my blog posts. "Would it be lame," she wondered "to tell you that you are really good at writing?"

"What did you tell her?"

"Ha! I told her I wrestle with confidence in my writing every day. Tell me! Tell me more!"

He chuckled as if he had no doubt that Sarah was right, but the truth is that my husband doesn't read what I write. He has no explanation.

"You don't read what I write."

"I know," he says with a duck of his head.

If I'm jealous of writing couples, sharing of my work tops the envy list. Of course, in my fantasy, there is no other editorial will influencing my own expression, no questioning voice or red pencil. In my marriage, my husband is innocent of infringing on the creative me, simply respecting that his wife writes. He's proud of my choice to teach, even though I've compromised our finances by turning away from much more lucrative positions to stay in the classroom. For my birthday, he bought me an e-reader so I'd never be without something to read.

After all these years, we live inside each other, boundaries now blurred between us, with almost a single will moving us forward. But yet, a watery shadow steps out of the us, taking on a separate flesh when my words meet paper.