A Good Marriage

by Kimberly McCreight

Once upon a time, I would have said that blacked out was the same as passed out. Someone asleep, basically, facedown on the carpet. Eight years into being married to Sam, I was now an expert in drunken vernacular.

In a blackout, a person—your husband, for instance—stays completely ambulatory, going through all the regular motions, albeit clumsily. He does not seem “passed out” in the least, though he is not “there” either, because the most essential portion of him—the him you love—has effectively vanished. Leaving you speaking to someone who looks like your loved one and sounds like your loved one but is not him in any meaningful way.

And in the end, wasn’t that the key to marriage? Learning to pretend that a few unspoiled things could make up for all the broken ones.

“Pretty bows on a pile of shit just make it harder to flush.”

“Sometimes it can be easier to pretend something isn’t happening if you keep it to yourself.” Wow. That explanation had popped out of my mouth with disconcerting ease.

“Forgiveness is a side effect of love,” he said finally. And sadly, almost. “If you are going to be married, share the ups and downs of life. What other choice is there?”