Living a Lie

Between the outlandish parties and the eccentric people, he now accommodated himself with, I was little more than an after-thought. It wouldn’t have mattered how endearing I made myself to suit him, he would have become consumed by his need for the bohemian side of life all the same. He was the type of man who could never be pleased and always hunted his next pleasure. He liked the unorthodox and craved the zany. The zanier, the better.

But like spice to the senses of an Arabian merchant, the more he indulged, the more insatiable his pallet became. Ordinary life was the life of a man unbeknown to himself. He became revolted at the idea of fulfilling a traditional role. A man and his wife, and their children, living in a society with conformity and respectability. Dining as head of the table every evening, with a family portrait hung above the mantel-piece and his pair of Great Danes awaiting scraps downstairs in the kitchen. He had tried to imagine himself in this role. He could see himself look out the wall-length window, onto the garden below and notice the stone fountain, then the forest and then the misty silhouette of hills. The thought of being forced to look upon a world he so wanted to explore was ludicrous enough, living under such restrictions would be his own personal form of torture. It may have been the life of his father and every other man he had ever encountered, but it was not one he saw at all for himself. To subject himself to a world of sensibility was too unsatisfactory for his tastes. Where was the sense in adventure and reckless spontaneity?

His zest for a greater meaning from life was considered admirable by most. His excitement proved contagious when he was on a high. What he lacked in conventionality, he made up for it in charisma and he was both envied and adored for it. For that reason, it came as a shock to learn of his suicide. I wasn’t the one to find him. The gardener had been the one to notify me of his death. It wasn’t a complete surprise to hear he had been wearing one of my best silk dresses for his final soiree. Such a shame.

It was early Sunday morning when he was found, face-down in the fountain. The water was poisoned with blood, his or otherwise. I hadn’t wished to know more details. I remember looking down at my wedding band as I twisted it around on my finger, just before I ripped it off and hurled it into the sky. It wasn’t one of my most lady-like moments, I must admit. I have my suspicions that one of the maids now has it in her possession. I believe I saw her wearing it on a chain around her neck, when she served my ladies and I luncheon down by the lake that same day. Thankfully, it hadn’t drawn the attention of the others. Although, they had been much too occupied with the news and gossiping about how the act had taken place. They had, all but one, convinced themselves of it being an outrageous murder. Chirping away about who had done it and how. I didn’t much care for conspiracy theories. The conversation was fruitless in my eyes and did nothing more than to annoy and bore me.

The longer I sat sipping tea, the more I yearned to be in Paris, over-looking the louvre from a table at Café de Chartres. We’ve recently entered into June, which means the city would be alight with gorgeous spring blooms and warm sun. I can already envision the impassioned, cobblestone-street-artists, attempting to capture the romantic beauty of their city. A beauty I long for, more with every tick of my watch and sound of forced laughter.

It is in this run-away thought I consider how similar we were, him and I. Both nostalgic for a life we wished we could have completely. Snippets and occasional scenes wouldn’t suffice. We wanted our dreams in their entirety. I understand his ache for a different life, as I too feel a sense of belonging to another place, another version of myself.

My faraway gaze faded in intensity and I once again was victim to the tea-cup-chatter surrounding me. I drew a deep breath in through my nose before pressing both hands on the embroidered table-cloth. I rose from my seat. The ladies’ chatter ceased. All sun hats slowly raised like sails atop their dainty heads. I smiled a wicked grin, and, without a single word, I ran – with blind purpose – from the table of fine china and silver spoons. Exhilarated; I whipped off my biting pumps, then my stockings and laughed. Incredulous to my own bravery I ran faster, catching the wind with out-stretched arms. I was a picture of true madness, I thought to myself. Between every footfall I laughed. It was a whole-hearted, raw type of laughter. I let it set me free.