Leonardo
Another ruptured fairy tale.
My clients stumble across the parking lot to their car after a grueling session of trying to repair the remnants of their marriage. If I, Leonardo DePaul, have anything to say about it—and I do—the Ashburtons will stay together.
The hard set of my jaw is reflected and repeated in rainbow fractals created by the leaded, beveled glass of my office window.
You see, I’m a paradox: a divorce attorney who doesn’t believe in divorce. I lament the destruction of families and champion reconciliation, just like St. George vanquishing a dragon. As a matter of fact, the mural painted on my office wall of The Wedding of St. George and Prince Sabra is a visual reminder of what I’m about.
Every day I'm called upon to enter the nightmare siege of shattered dreams and lost innocence. The beasts I battle are no less formidable than that dragon. However, the only attack I relish is one against divorce. And I’m good at it. I save more marriages than I dissolve.
The alternative is too punishing to consider. If any clients of mine don’t pour heart and soul into reconciliation, if they end up filing for divorce, I make them pay dearly for it. It’s understood and is part of the contract couples sign as my clients, that the destruction of the fairy tale will be expensive and not to be undertaken lightly.
That condition is for my own mental health. No slacking off, no giving up, or you’ll become the foe, and I’ll turn the attack on your sorry ass. Over the nearly ten years I’ve been in practice, I’ve developed all sorts of ways to work out my frustration and disappointment in slackers or quitters who rupture the fairy tale. The more frustrated you’ve made me with your bad attitude or lack of effort, the more I’ll make you suffer. It’s just that simple.
Outside my window, a shady copse insulates the pale stone of my newly-acquired office park and golf club. Drawing a deep breath through my nose I expel it slowly and focus on the fairway greens beyond the trees. Controlled breathing helps release tension between my shoulders.
In spite of the stressful emotions of the past hour, I’m hopeful for the Ashburtons. They seem finally to understand the vision and commitment that will be necessary to keep their marriage together.
I’ve watched my parents navigate their fairy tale marriage for all my thirty-three years, and they seem to fall deeper in love every day. Someday I hope to find a woman with whom I can share a similar life. Someone who loves me enough to make it work, no matter what. The times I’ve thought I might be close didn’t turn out as I hoped.
Recently, I’ve been too busy building my practice and establishing financial security. Oh, sure, I played the field plenty in my teens and twenties. But my definition of romance back then was seducing a woman in a “gentlemanly” way, opening doors, picking up the check, listening attentively, keeping my baser urges under control until I’d satisfied her at least once. Yeah, a real charmer.
Now, I’m ready for something more meaningful.
A lot of young guys look at marriage and commitment as the end of life. That’s just shortsighted. Find the right woman, and it’s the beginning of a whole new type of life that grows as you do, given the proper attention and care.
Like Jonny Ox writes:
Read to me
a page of your soul
one night at a time.
That’s what I want.
Don’t get me wrong. I still live a bachelor lifestyle. These days, when I date, I still do all the gentlemanly things I did when I was younger. But now I also keep in the back of my mind that this woman could be my wife someday. The mother of my children. The partner I grow old with. Every woman I see and am attracted to passes through my mental checklist, because I’m actually looking to take that next step.
So far, no luck. Nobody who makes me feel we could make it over the long haul. Nobody who makes me want to try beyond a fling. No one whose soul I want to read one night at a time.
But I keep looking. I know she’s out there.
Waiting for me to find and claim her. Fight for her, if I have to. In fact, that idea appeals to my romantic side.
"Mr. DePaul? You wanted me to remind you of your appointment at the wedding coordinator's for your fitting."
My secretary’s voice over the intercom breaks my reverie, and I drag myself back to the present. “Thanks, Brenda. I won’t be back today, so you go ahead and kick off early, too.”
I shut down my computer and rise to leave. As I head to the underground garage for my car, my mouth kicks up in a one-sided smile, thinking of my brother, Tony, and his upcoming nuptials. Although I couldn’t last a night with his scatterbrained intended, Cleo, they’ve found each other and are about to write their own fairy tale. I can’t deny the pang of envy that stabs my gut.
Juliette
Another love-blind beginning.
I watch a bride-to-be and her friends traipse out to their car, their biggest concerns being what lipstick to wear on the big day, and whether or not they can get away with going commando under their gowns.
Was I, Juliette Samson, that giddy twelve years ago, planning my own wedding? Probably. Little girls believe in the fairy tale of romance. Fluffy dresses, bushels of flowers, sparkling diamonds. A strong, handsome guy on a white horse to keep you safe and make you feel like royalty.
It doesn’t take long to disabuse us of the notion, though, does it. Put the dress in storage, dump the decayed buds, cover up the diamonds with bright yellow rubber gloves to go clean the bathroom, and shit gets real. Literally. Add somebody criticizing you out of one side of his mouth while slobbering on you with the other side, or worse yet, smacking you around in combination with the other things, and shit gets fucking real, really fucking fast.
If you’re wondering why I’m in the wedding business, feeling the way I do, you’re not alone. My being the proud owner of the most successful special events business in the state of North Carolina is the height of irony. I don’t believe in love. Not anymore. And sometimes I even have to remind myself to be happy.
But I keep all that to myself. I actively enable fairytale believers. Why?
Events such as weddings and christenings, birthdays and bar mitzvahs make it possible for me to live overlooking the ocean, drive a luxury car, and wear designer clothes. They also pay for the silver leaf wall panels of this office, softly reflecting light from the free-curving branches of the Papagena chandeliers studded with small Swarovski crystals.
No matter. The chandeliers may set the tone for elegance and romantic flights of fancy, critical elements of my consultancy, but make no mistake: it's a business, that's all. A business where people are usually in good spirits, which is a definite plus, but a business nevertheless. You won’t catch me being swept away by the chimera of youthful fantasies and dreams. No, I keep everything pleasant but professional, well-grounded in reality. Life makes sense that way. Life’s ugliness isn’t such a shock to the system that way.
And best of all, there’s no guy telling you he doesn’t respect your mind, or complaining about the cookies you try to bake, or nitpicking how you do his wash. No armor to polish, and no white horse shitting on your lawn.
If my body didn’t like sex, I wouldn’t even think about men.
Don’t get me wrong; everybody’s entitled to do the puffy dress thing once, just like I did. Go ahead and indulge in the fairy tale. Work it out of your system. My consultants and I will help you.
But at some point, you gotta wake up and get on with real life.
Movement outside my window catches my attention. The clueless bride-to-be and her equally-clueless friends have chattered and chirped their way into their ersatz chariot to roll on down the street, exuberantly anticipating the metaphorical journey ahead with Prince Charming.
I feel nothing but pity for them.