folie à deux

to love is to be subsumed

When I first lay eyes on him, the contours of his face are cast into sharp, unflattering relief by the harsh light and stale air of the hotel conference room. My eyes dart around each pore, each acne scar, before they take in the full, pleasing sweep of his face. But as soon as I really see him, I know he is The One. There is no great swell of sound, no grand flourish from the strings, no high soprano lilting about the power of love. Still, I feel something click into place inside of me. There you are, it seems to say. I've been waiting my whole life for you. 

Everything happens effortlessly after that. He, too, must know that we were made for each other. We fall into bed that evening, become exclusive by Sunday afternoon, reveal our long-term plans to each other in a slow, steady drip over coffee chats and cocktail hours before inevitably going back to his place. I develop an idea of what dresses he wants me to wear based on how much he seems to like taking similar ones off. When we become serious enough for him to take me along to eat dinners at nice restaurants with white tablecloths, he pays in full. I learn that we both want three children and a big house in the suburbs and maybe a golden retriever for the kids to play with. It is a perfectly respectable courtship for an upwardly-mobile woman.

But my favorite part comes at the end of each date, after we have exhausted all of the clearly delineated social scripts about romance. In the quiet dark of early morning, we talk about our deepest anxieties and hopes and fears until we fall asleep. I don’t have a lot to say, so I mostly listen to him speak. I like to hear his authoritative baritone and smile to myself when he executes a rhetorical flourish particularly well. I certainly know how to pick them. He had been a champion debater in college. He's always had a knack for backroom politics, a preternatural understanding of each potential action’s optics and consequences. He knows he was born to win something. I want to be a great man, he tells me, one who makes the world in his own image. 

I am utterly infatuated.

My life rearranges itself around him. I learn how to attend campaign fundraisers and apologetically cancel dinner plans with old friends to get to them on time. To shake hands with his bosses and coworkers and their wives and cousins. To write and edit a press release so fast it makes my head spin. To cook and plate a three-course dinner for eight without much notice. To demur when a situation demands that I do anything but be the smiling, supportive, placid woman. Eventually, I stop receiving other invitations to go out in the first place, and I can finally devote all of my evenings and weekends to him. He likes my performance, my dedication. It's enough to ask me to move in. I can't accept his offer fast enough. I bring over everything I have, jam in my clothes and books between his, and feel like our lives are knitting themselves together.

So it makes sense when our first argument happens. Months before we'd met, I'd applied for a position that wasn't quite my dream job but would put me on track to get it. It was in a city only a few hours away. And I wouldn't have done the same after I'd met him. After he saw me – wanted me – at the conference, even in my ugly, ill-fitted skirtsuit, I’d stopped applying for new positions in general. But my heart skips a beat when I see the full-time offer land delicately in my abandoned inbox. I feel that old flutter of ambition in my chest, and my pulse races and my face flushes and I can’t stop fantasizing. It’s pure limerance. 

I let myself imagine that we could make a new life together somewhere new. A place that is equally ours. My mind runs wild with the afterimages of our future: a bigger place, meant for a couple; two pairs of shoes curled next to each other; his cologne bottles mixed in between my cosmetics; him meeting me at my office with a massive, riotous bouquet of flowers, congratulating me on my promotion; wearing a matching blazer and pants purchased and tailored to fit me instead of making do; attending more of those dinners, but now as an accomplished partner instead of a limp prop. I want to spend forever in that world.

So I cook his favorite dinner that night and feel incandescent with possibility. I want him to see the inviting outlines of my vision, of what we could achieve together. When he comes home, everything is warm and soft and lovely. Our conversation flows freely. I pour generous glasses of his favorite wine for both of us to drink. His lips curve into a smile when I tell him I have a surprise planned. But as I explain everything, I watch his face freeze, and then I'm racing to get all of the words I want to say out in one great exhale. But his jaw sets and brow furrows even as I implore him to consider how we could grow together – what I could do for him. When I'm trying to wrap up everything with one last exhortation, one final burst of inspiration, he cuts in-

Can I even trust you?

Because, you see, he is rational. You are not. Let's be objective here – his future is more promising than yours. Why do you want to skip town when he's just become next in line to run the district office? Do you really think he can uproot himself so easily? Are you really this much of an idiot, or are you trying to get a rise out of him? Do you really think you're gonna keep producing mediocre articles that no one reads for the rest of your life? Do you want to make something of yourself? You let him go on and on and on, and it never feels like he will stop talking.

In your mind, you thumb through an internal catalog of all the other times you'd spoken a bit too freely at the endless parade of events he trots you out at. You think of the way his hands had tightened around your arm when you made a sharp remark. You think of how he pinched at your waist when you didn't smile widely enough. You think of when you learned to stop speaking unless spoken to. You realize he is doing the same thing, but he doesn't need to lay a finger on you for it to work anymore. 

You realize that he is right. He is The One. And you love him, don't you? Wouldn't you give anything to stay by his side? So why don't you prove it? Yes, call them now. I said now. You shouldn't care that they're off work already. Just do it. It’ll be the first thing they see on Monday morning. Doesn't this matter more to you? You feel something pool in your stomach as you leave a voicemail declining the offer. Your voice is not your own – it is smoothed out a bit too much to compensate for the trembling of your hands. There is no emotion in your tone. You are still reeling when he starts kissing down your neck with something you used to mistake for reverence.

But you want this, don't you? So act like it. There, was it that hard? Oh, come on, don't cry. You needed to do this. You're with me. You're safe. I’ll take care of you. You know how I love you. We’ll buy you a new dress tomorrow. I knew you were perfect for me when we met, I really did. I knew you could see reason. My beautiful, brilliant girl. I knew you would pick us over yourself. See? We were made for each other. 

by Paloma Sánchez Díaz