She was raised to believe that life was a series of first impressions. That every relationship, every opportunity hinged on her ability to smile brightly and be not just polite, but dazzling. That if she wasn’t constantly at her best, she would be exposed as an ugly orange pumpkin simply masquerading as the princess and she would never land her Prince Charming (she never could get her fairy tale analogies quite right, either).
He was weaned on role models (Mr. Rochester, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Gatsby) who were bad for him, and not just because they were fictional. They show him how to flaunt his flaws like a shield to protect the earnest heart he wore on his sleeve, like he was some sort of knight or something, even though he never bought into the concept of kings and maidens (like many other romances, it was too fantastic for his taste).
She was taught how to be a proper lady while other little girls were being taught how to be children. She was a goddess both in status and in stature, beautiful on the outside and able to fake it well enough on the inside. She was extraordinary. She had to be.
He was okay with imperfections because he understood his own all too well. After all, he was hindered by an idealistic mind directly opposed to his realistic worldview, not to mention an allergy to conventional romance. If ordinary meant imperfect then ordinary was okay- hell, ordinary was encouraged, embraced. He was no good at playing superhero anyway.
She wanted a prince. She got him instead.
He wanted ordinary. He ended up with the furthest thing from it.
They didn’t fit together.
It was obvious to everyone who observed them from the moment they first locked eyes. They were like two puzzle pieces (of night sky or calm water- those are always the hardest sections to complete) randomly jabbed together by an impatient toddler oblivious to the incorrectness of it all. He would push where she couldn’t take being shoved, she was blind to the holes he needed filled. It was wrong- they were wrong, no matter how similar to each other they appeared to be.
Sure, they could pretend. He could train himself to believe that the way she carried herself and the things she did (ball gowns? masquerade parties? really?) were quirky instead of snobby, charming instead of pretentious. That somehow the way she behaved added to her appeal. She had learned at a young age to feign interest at the most mundane of things (who really cares about soccer, anyway?). To blend in with the proletariat. As if it was okay to be okay with being normal.
He would sit through her afternoon teas, accompany her to art galas and on her shopping excursions, waiting outside dressing rooms while she hemmed and hawed, carrying her bags (in which were stored contents that cost more than his life) like a good soldier while quelling thoughts of mutiny. She would tag along whenever he visited the record store or the coffeehouse or even the used bookstore, all the while resisting the urge to turn up her nose at the sight of him touching things that so many other (dirty disgusting smelly hairy hippie) people had touched before.
He would shoot her a glare once in a while, because it seemed to be the only thing that could stop her foot from eventually entering her mouth (either way it shut her up). She would give him a smack on the shoulder every so often, just to remind him who really wore the pants (and stylish ones, at that). It worked.
They worked.
Everyone knew that it would fall apart eventually, though. Even the two of them knew, because it would, right? Because when it came down to it, at the end of the day, they just didn’t fit together.
Except that they did.
She knew neither of them could tell you when exactly their dynamic shifted, how what they have now (which she wouldn’t trade for the world) came to be. She figured it was somewhere between when her reprimand stopped coming with her fist and started coming with her caress when she realized it- that they were like two puzzle pieces that didn’t fit correctly, but only because they’d been trying to connect themselves together the wrong way.
He liked to say he saw it coming, but to be honest, it surprised him as much as anyone when they woke up one morning like… this. Working. Fitting. It was only looking back to somewhere between when his looks stopped meaning I wish you’d be quiet and started meaning I love you more I thought I could that he realized it- that nobody had bothered to tell them that they were too busy looking in other directions when they should have been facing each other all along.
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Now playing: Rob Drabkin – The Way You Look Tonight
via FoxyTunes
Posted by bmwong 
