Living With A Superhero

She rolls on to the other side of the bed, denying me the pleasure of watching her sleep. My face falls. The sun has risen, and I’m still in my bed, still under the covers, but awake as I am every day, doing what I love doing the most. Well, until she rolls on to the other side of the bed. She does that every day too. Sometimes, I think she knows I watch her sleep. Which is why she hides her face as soon as she realizes I’m watching.

It pisses me off. She doesn’t know how beautiful the sight of her, deep in sleep, is. Of course she doesn’t. The way her lips curl in a smile that is too elusive to be a smile, but is still one; the way her lashes spread gracefully all over, the way her earring—the one that she forgot to get rid of before falling asleep yesterday night because she was too tired to even notice it was there. I wish I could steal her—from her office, from her colleagues, from her routine, from her job.
Last week, she was up until four o’ clock in the morning because it was a weekend and the people from her office were having a party and I was awake all the time, waiting for her in the drawing room, watching advertisements for slim sauna belts. When she came, she kicked off her heels, lost her clutch, and collapsed on the couch with her head on my lap. I was asking her questions—if she was okay, if she needed water—but she was already asleep. I swear she was. And I sat on the couch, falling asleep there until we both woke up late in the afternoon. Not that I am complaining about it, but I did. For her.

But now, as she rushes inside the closet, brushes her teeth in seconds, takes a shower in under five, and comes out all dressed up with wet hair, giving me the feel of living with the flash, I can’t help but notice that something has changed. She stands at the kitchen island gulping down her bread with a glass of milk, and even then, she’s trying to talk work with someone. As I stand across her, she finishes off her “breakfast” and gives me a hug, which is too short to be called one, and kisses me on my cheek which is the best thing that will happen to me today, and then she’s out of the door and on her way to her office—fighting her demons and smiling her way through it, my own superhero. Superheroine, if you may.
But it’s tough living with a superhero. It looks clinical on the silver screen as they fly away for “the greater cause” leaving behind their loved ones with heavy hearts. You root for them because you watch their life, from their eyes. It looks ugly from here. She wasn’t like this before. She noticed. She admired. She had time to stop in the middle of a journey to notice a butterfly flutter her rainbow wings on the leaves of a shrub off the road. She had time for the little pleasures of life. And she had time for me.

I wish we hadn’t moved to a big city. I wish we were in our same old crappy country town. I wish she hadn’t got her job offer. I know that’s selfish, but deep down, everyone is. We’re all finding our way through the journey that is life, trying hard to make sure that the person who profits most from this journey is us. I wouldn’t have hated her job so much if it wouldn’t have cut me off from her life. She smiles, she hugs, she kisses, but that’s not her. We’re living together, but we aren’t really.

It’s not her fault. But it isn’t mine either. I’m habituated to her. I’m so used to live my life with her around that I just don’t know how not to. It seems almost impossible at times. My life used to revolve around her life and now I’m just a thing among many other things. We live under the same roof, but we don’t live with each other. She lives with her work and I with my insecurities.
It’s like deaddiction. Most times, it doesn’t work because it just replaces one addiction with another. I learnt to somehow survive with her being rarely around, but her place was taken by all these insecurities. Does she miss me the way I miss her? Does she feel all the things I am feeling? Does she realize our relationship is slowly sinking? Does she have the same feelings for me she had the day when I told her I loved her and she said she did too? Does she still love me?

I thought about talking to her, straight with everything. But I couldn’t. Most times, I couldn’t muster the courage to speak out. I don’t want her to feel that I don’t lover her, or that I doubt her feelings. I know she has gone through a lot to be with me—lots of sacrifices. I don’t want to hurt her. But I don’t want to live like this either. So when I do muster the courage to speak up, she isn’t around. Six days of the week, she leaves the house in the morning and comes home at midnight. On Sunday, she sleeps until late noon, and then she’s busy completing her assignments, and at night she’s in such a cheery mood that she makes dinner for the both of us and it breaks my heart to say the things I want to say.

Because the thing is, she isn’t a villain. She’s still a hero. My hero, who works for sixteen hours to make sure that we have everything we need and want. My hero, who takes extra assignments and completes them on her only week holiday so that the money can go to the fund she’s saving to buy me a SUV. It has been my dream, and she wants to surprise me by gifting me one, and I feel so terrible about knowing the surprise beforehand. My hero, who spends her only free evening of the week cooking food for me, instead of watching TV or going out somewhere because she knows I love her biryanis and hash browns more than anything else in the world. I don’t know what to do about my insecurities, but I don’t want to vilify my hero. Maybe I can sacrifice my wishes for the sake of her happiness. Isn’t that what superheroes do? And it does feel like “the greater good.” Because she deserves it. She does, my own superhero. Superheroine, if you may.