Husbands

I had just been sprung from nine weeks in the hospital and my fiancé was showering me with the most wonderful gifts. The first was a trip to the hair salon for a much needed cut and color. He wheeled me down to my usual spot and picked me up when I was done. My hairdresser loved him and his thoughtfulness.

Because there was so little time between meeting and engagement and then the blink of an eye between engagement and the hospital, the people who inhabited my life had not had too much time to get to know him. Certainly not as I had. His kindness, his absolute honesty, his unabashed love for me. These were things that took getting used to under the best of circumstances.

They were all such a radical departure from my first husband. It was, admittedly, many years ago. But you get that paranoid "what his he doing behind my back" thing going. Even after 15-some years you have a hard time shaking it off. Five mistresses. Gun dealing. Siphoning off my hard-earned salary to nefarious purposes. Absolutely no redeeming moments, hindsight explaining that even the best of the worst was all his illusion.

A few days after the hair salon, my fiancé surprised me again and wheeled me into my small, cramped nail salon. They made enough room for me to comfortably remain in my wheelchair. He was there for less than five minutes, ready, again, to pick me up when done. The Korean woman began work on my nails, asking if he was my husband.

"Not yet! He is my fiancé. We will be married next year," I beamed.

"He has such kind eyes," she said so sweetly and then turned back to the business of tackling my cuticles. I could not help but smile at his almost instant likability. No wonder he caught me so off guard.