My Husband

by Maud Ventura

My husband has no name; he is my husband, he belongs to me.

For example, a few months after we met, I ended things with him. A two-week hiatus during which I ran back into the arms of a former lover, Adrien. We took the train and went to see the ocean. Then, one morning, I left a note on the pillow and I returned to the man who would become my husband. What happened during those two weeks of wavering is none of his business.

They say that those who sleep on their backs are sociable, those who lie on their stomachs are sexually frustrated, those who prop themselves on their sides are confident.

My husband is going to leave me. I can picture it already: signing the divorce papers at one end of the table, my eyes red with tears, moving into a tiny, dark two-bedroom, unable to find another man over forty, nights spent single-handedly taking care of the children I never wanted.

“I think you’re way off the mark. You’ve never thought that maybe your husband loves you more than you love him? You say that you’re madly in love with him, but don’t you think he’s actually the one who’s really in love? Between the two of you, he’s the one whose love has moved beyond the passionate honeymoon phase. You’re still living in the obsessive stage that normally only lasts the first few months of a relationship. You don’t even trust him, as though you’ve built nothing together. Maybe things aren’t exactly how you’d like them to be, but you said it yourself: your husband supports you, knows you, respects you, and loves you. I think you’ve got it all wrong. Your husband is the infatuated one. Not you. You don’t even really love him.”

When I love, I become harsh, serious, intolerant. A heavy shadow settles over my relationships. I love and want to be loved with so much gravitas that it quickly becomes exhausting (for me, for the other person). It’s always an unhappy kind of love.

By chance, I had managed to record one of our rare fights, a conflict that destabilized me for several days. I transcribed it onto my computer, then translated it into English, being careful to cut out any identifying information. I printed out the text, then gave it to my students, telling them it was a chapter from an old English textbook, and that a conjugal spat would give us the perfect framework to practice the imperative. I was so desperate for a new perspective that I asked them for their opinion on the conversation. One of the students raised their hand and said, “The husband doesn’t love the wife.” A stab to the heart. I had to sit down for a second to catch my breath.

Make no mistake. By acting this way, I give her what she needs. I fuel her passion for the good of our family. I know her by heart: if we’d had a peaceful relationship, she would have quickly grown bored—and she would have ended up leaving me for a supposedly great love. Her romantic engine runs on strong sensations, so I try to maintain a certain cadence. My wife can’t go long without a spark.

No notebook or codified system for me, I leave that to my wife. I act on my whims—I do what I like. I go to her when I miss her, and distance myself when she irritates me. Knowing that she’s prepared to do anything for me is a comfortable position to be in. Comforting, too, and above all, reassuring. No other woman will ever love me like she does. She’s Ariane. She’s my wife.