I have worked on a fantasy novel, The Void Where She Lives, for the past two years. The story's hero is my wife, but she doesn't know it yet. This makes me happy—or it did until the day she walked into the room and said she was going to divorce me.
What?! How anyone could divorce me was beyond me...
I jumped up to speak and explain to my wife that I couldn't live without her care, and she should immediately—do you hear that, Louise?—forget all that nonsense and cook whatever would bring me peace of mind. But I couldn't. The words were gone. I swear I opened my mouth—a well-trained mouth, I should add—hoping my tongue would miraculously produce the familiar sound. It didn't.
"Don’t even try to convince me to stay, Michael. You don't have power over me anymore! Warm your damn sandwich by yourself..."
I nodded. Of course, she was irritated—I looked like a fish out of water, gasping for air, trying to concentrate on one letter at a time. I, who was usually a fountain of fresh adjectives and adverbs, the one who was playing an endless game of scribble on the go... The disturbing aspect of the divorce was that my wife somehow knew I craved delicious food and freshly brewed coffee, for which she was well-known in our neighborhood. Yet, she didn't care anymore. The heroine of my house—bless her non-existent heart—gently pushed my arm, attempting to pass by.
"I'm going to Café De Jodesi with Inga. Are you trying to stop me? I bet you do… Go ahead, stop me.”
I waved my arms up and down. Inga? That witch? Who’s going to do the laundry today? In a last-ditch effort to communicate, I grabbed a to-do list, believing that writing my words down might help me explain the issue with my sudden speech failure. I scribbled, "My dear Louise, you can’t," but the letters refused to appear, leaving the paper as virgin as it had been a couple of minutes ago. Absolutely white, untouched by human hands. I was terrified. How could something I love and do for a living turn against me?
I tried sketching something on that smudged paper, perhaps profound, dirty, or poetic. All I managed was a shadow.
When I thought all hope was lost, my wife walked into our small kitchen with her superhero attitude and announced, "Did you say something? I assume it was important. In case it wasn’t and you are too busy wrestling with your sick fantasy and all your stupid word count ----”
I sat in the chair and closed my eyes. What if meditation could open the floodgates of speech? Hmm, I couldn’t hear any sound. The wall of pristine emptiness mocked my attempt to break through the barrier of our misunderstanding.
“And you know what, Michael… you should probably change the title of your masterpiece to “The Void Where His Thoughts Live.” My wife suggested with a playful sarcasm.
Aha, she read my novel! The title wasn’t that bad. She knows me well...
So there I was: sitting on the kitchen chair, blaming my wordless crisis for my future troubles with my gut, my sex life, and cleaning. What if this new reality is just the beginning? Why are the words playing hide-and-seek with me today? The absurdity of it all became overwhelming, especially when my wife suggested I marry our darling pet instead—a ferret—since we understood each other perfectly without any communication.
When she finally left the apartment, it struck me: Nothing is more frightening than when the hero of your novel no longer wants to be your hero. Or when the hero conspires to leave your pages in a time of critical need.
In a state of wifeless panic, I rushed to the balcony to bid farewell to my beloved Louise. Perhaps seeing my lonely silhouette outside—as I recall, I hadn’t been outside in the past two weeks—would make her understand how wrong she was, even if through telepathy or osmosis.
I waited. The icy wind blew. People walked in and out. She wasn’t there.
I heard the familiar tiptoeing behind my back and smiled (aha, my hero has returned). Perhaps with a steaming sense of guilt and a cappa of perfect coffee? I glanced back... My eyes met hers as her firm, well-fed hand pushed me over the railing.
“Blank page… What a wasted day,” I thought on the way down.
