"Darlene" by Sarah Lynn Knowles, this issue's Spotlight Fiction Author

(This is an excerpt--check out Issue 7 in print for the full story.)

Spotlight on Sarah Lynn Knowles.

Roxanne, my mother-in-law for going on two years now, told me Oprah had this couples counselor on the other day who swore the key to a happy and long-lasting marriage is you can’t ever go to bed angry, not ever, no exceptions. If you don’t sort things out before pulling that lamp cord, this lady said, all the unresolved irritation will float above your bed, nipping at your and your hubby’s brains all night. So if by chance you do manage a good night’s rest (which you probably won’t), you’ve still prevented any kind of fresh start the next morning because you’ll wake up bitter with issues to deal with before your eyes have even gotten used to the sun being out.

Now, I get what she was trying to say, and of course I can’t boast any kind of credentials that’d get me on the Oprah show—for any topic, never mind the psychology of married people—but the part of the equation that’s not adding up for me is where these couples are finding all the time. Or energy. And the courage and motivation, too, to say anything about quitting fighting in the first place. 

See, there comes this turning point in a marriage, or there did in mine anyway, where every effort takes more effort, and time starts seeming to slide around and drip through every crack. It’ll come on sudden, like a switch was flipped. One day you’ll look at your husband and think, Something is different, without knowing what. You’ll stare harder, squint your eyes maybe, or tilt your head to the side. “Did you get a haircut?” you will ask. Or, “Is that a new shirt?” And when he says no, neither, you’ll find yourself in a strange sort of standoff, him watching you examine every detail, your brow furrowed, your hands pulling pieces of fabric, sections of flesh, like time’s running low on one of those touch-screen Photo Hunt games in bars, you know, where you compare the two naked-lady pictures and point out the five differences between them. And the inconsistency isn’t ever simple or obvious, like Girl On the Left is missing a nipple while Girl On the Right has three; it’s always something teeny-tiny, like the pencil on the desk her bare ass leans back onto casts a shadow in only one instance, or a thin crack in the floorboard extends farther past one of her garish red pinkie toenails.

Nobody can stand losing a game of Photo Hunt, of course—not when the answer should be right there, staring out at you from the gleaming bright screen. And skipping over those glaring answers means you are stupid, kind of—or at least ignorant. Which is exactly how you’ll feel with that rock-sized worry in your abdomen, knowing something is different. Pawing at your husband’s chest and sides, stepping back to size him up against that image tattooed on the wall of your brain, finding nothing. You know him; you know this life, the one you share. You’re supposed to, anyway. But this feeling—this nagging, evidence-less feeling—it is something. Know that you are not wrong. Take stock of the air in the room, depleted like a helium balloon that’s sunk down a little from the sky. Notice the lighting, inexplicably altered—cleaner, whiter, casting sharper shadows behind objects, magnifying flaws and faults. Someone’s surely flicked a switch and changed things. Something’s on that before was off. Something’s off that was once on.

For us—for me—it happened when the baby came along.

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