My Husband

by Maud Ventura

I cry and the passersby stare at me; you don’t often see such a beautiful woman crying. I cry, and the worst part is that I’m sure the tears suit me.

I spent my childhood and adolescence being the woman in love: my dreams for the future were inspired by sappy novels, and the only films I deemed worthy of my interest were those that portrayed love stories.

(the idea that there was once a world in which my husband and I had only ever exchanged ten words makes me dizzy—how many are we at now?),

I accept losing as though failure were a part of me: I submit to it.