carrie fisher, when harry met sally, rolodex, going through names, someone else is married to my husband, married, dead

Someone else is married to my husband

There we found ourselves, attached only by our eye beams as we noticed one another across that crowded room. Slowly but determinedly we snaked and laddered our way towards each other while the night was still so, so young. We found a corner. Well, it felt like a corner but it was in full view, above board, irreproachable. He was married. He was the marrying kind. He was not after anything except the next moment, laugh, flash, fix, bolt. I was enraptured; at my best. No risk, nothing to win or lose but just fully inside the moment. “Be present,” they say, “be mindful.” For once I was present but mindless. My mind was blown.

Others came and went as the party peaked and troughed; we invited them into our nook. It was both an opportunity to show off a little, to create immediate in-jokes and to ensure that proceedings were utterly, publicly legit.

He was perfection, this man. He could be perfection, you see, because however close he felt he was remote; a distant oasis of possibility in a desert, a jungle, an ocean of doubt and failure and… hope?

He mentions his wife enough to set the boundaries. I ask about her enough to reinforce them. Nothing is going to happen. We probably won’t swap numbers using work as an excuse. If I want to see him again I’ll invite them to something as a couple, I suppose. Just to take another look. To work out if someone else is married to my husband. Because today, tonight, right now and for a day or two afterwards, that’s exactly how it feels. And I will find a way to live with that. Just as I did last time and the time before.

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