fear

He knew there were times when the terror just trickled down her back. When she was young she was frightened of everything, every sound, every sight, every car and aeroplane and train and seagull bell call stabbed the fright into her stomach.

She was Susanna and he loved her. But she was frightened. She was always frightened. As a child she had been afraid of all the usual suspects: body mutilation, animals, supernatural beings, monsters, ghosts, unfamiliar routines, separation from trusted adults, abandonment, annihilation. As she got older, just like we all got older, she learned to be afraid of getting older. In fact, now that he thought about it, she was still frightened of body mutilation, but really who wasn't? He was. And most of all, she was still terrified of the thought of annihilation—a big blank hole in the world where she used to stand and sing in the evening air; a big blank hole where her heart used to be. But at least, and thank god for this, at least she wasn't still afraid of ghosts. The ghosts had been horrifying.

Almost as horrifying as a mortgage.

And that’s what he had liked about her at first, she had been beautiful but so fragile, she was terrified and terrifying. He had never felt like a particular strong man until he met her, but she gave him a sense of purpose, someone to protect, someone to care for, someone to feed soup and bread. She had even been afraid of him at first, of the potential he had to crush her, to eat her heart and tear her flesh and wound her psyche—how could she ever give anyone such power over her? That was why she had been such a heartbreaker when they met, she never grew close to any of the men who came courting with chocolate and gold and saltwater fingers laid across the bone. She simply used them for what they were worth and moved on. She hadn't been possessed of the power of her own beauty, she never sought her lovers out. They had come to her and she had enjoyed their company for a time but cancelled them from her life, erased their memory the moment, the exact pinpoint instant, before things got too serious, got too comfortable, the moment before she truly became attached.

But she had grown closer to him, finally. He was the exception. She had relented, she had grown to trust him, to seek out his protection and his arms and slowly she overcame her fears. Instead of being afraid of love and heartache, she now could not even imagine being away from him; she had, in fact, insisted upon a marriage. She had been scared of moving out of her parents, yet here they were in their own home. She had been terrified of pregnancy, but here was their baby cooing and gooing and shimmying like a small snail in a bed of flowers. She had been afraid of him, she had been afraid of her own capacity to love, but here they were—here she was handling her life rationally like an adult instead of the terrified child who had ocne fled in fright from the sun as it hung suspended like a platinum plate in the air.

Sometimes he wondered if he had made a mistake.