She finds beauty in places I don’t even see

No matter how long you’re been married, there remain those gobsmacked moments in which you learn something new about your mate. 

Or you’re reminded of something you once knew but somehow forgot.

And so it’s been with me and my Beijing-born wife.

In this Age of the Pandemic, we have spent three months living side by side, leading a life most couples take for granted, and yet denied us because of the two careers we pursue in two different states.

Normally, she lives in San Francisco, while I reside in Las Vegas. Every two weeks, like clockwork, I hop on a plane for a four-day weekend of togetherness.

It’s like a first date. I open doors. We take hikes, try out new restaurants, binge-watch videos, while I try to stifle my bodily noises.

Ah, romance!

Our arrangement is not for everyone, and it works as well as it does because we do not have children, so one partner is not tasked with the quite-onerous responsibility of being a de-facto single parent.

(Anyway, my wife says she doesn’t need kids; she has me.)

When strangers learn of our peculiar lifestyle, they’ll either cock their heads sympathetically and ask, “Is everything all right with you two?”

Or they’ll declare, “Where can I find a spouse like that?”

Fact is, we’re both pretty independent. 

Over time, I’ve become quite solitary. I read, write, blog, hunt for freelance work, plot nonfiction book projects, drink the occasional glass (or more) of red wine with dinner. 

I sometimes suspect that my wife actually prefers our time apart, when she can just be herself without judgment or snide comment. 

When I have traveled abroad on a story, often for weeks at a time, she never interrogates me about when I’ll return. 

“Don’t forget to call,” she'll say.

Then she goes back to her life — her work, exercise, phone chats and outings with friends, just being her, in her own tidy space.

She’s like a house cat prowling its domain, while I’m a big slobbering dog always yelping to be taken out to go to the bathroom.

Sometimes, I ask myself: How does this marriage even work?

We were born on opposite sides of the planet. She’s right-brain, I’m left. I work with words, she balances numbers. She owns a tool box, I’ve never even bought a socket wrench. 

She’s curious about the way things work, how they’re put together. She loves exploring the screw aisle at Home Depot, where I quickly become flummoxed and frustrated.

When a light goes out in my suburban house, I’ll sigh, “Oh well, looks like I’ll just have to live in the dark.”

The other day, I asked about a video she was watching, so she showed me: A do-it-yourself clip on how to rewire a lamp. I once watched her open an outlet in our San Francisco kitchen and redo the wiring. 

Me, I struggle to fold the laundry.

All of this worked well enough when we lived in two different cities.

But in March, I drove to San Francisco so we could shelter in place together.

Two months flew by. We took walks. She worked at home, her computer set up on her dining room table, while I manned the couch.

There wasn’t much to fix. My wife had already taken care of all that.

Then, a few weeks ago, we drove to Vegas to spend some time under the desert sun.

My wife rarely, if ever, comes here, maybe once or twice a year, because it’s cheaper for me to fly to her, and I far prefer the Bay Area.

And so began my know-thy-mate refresher course.

She prowled the house, shaking her head, sighing, eyeing the way I lived. She inspected glasses and silverware for water marks and other evidence of lazy cleaning and a slipshod bachelor’s life.

The worst discoveries were the dried flecks of food from meals past.

And she had questions:

“Where were all the forks we once owned?”

“Why are the tile floors so filthy?”

“Why does the kitchen faucet leak?”

“Why are there so many food stains on the bedspread?”

We launched a spring cleaning to bring the joint up to her exacting standards. I scoured the stove and oven, swept underneath the bed, swabbed the floors from back office to kitchen.

I was exhausted, but she was just getting started.

We painted the front gate, swept the garage, took down the backyard screens and washed the windows behind them for the first time in eight years.

As I watch her work, I realize this about the woman I married 20 years ago: she has this instinctive pride of ownership. I witness in amazement how she pays renewed attention to some long-neglected corner of my abode, moving a picture there, a vase there.

Me, I brag to friends that not only do I not have children, I also do not own a pet or a living house plant. I’m on the road. I close the door and I go.

Problem solved.

But of all my renewed discoveries about my wife, this one stood out:

She sees beauty in places I do not even know to look.

The other night, during one of our after-dark walks, my wife collected a handful of desert flowers, the type that had bloomed unseen right under my nose for a decade.

The next morning, I awoke to find that she had arranged three vases that stunned me with their simple elegance.

Now I once again I see world through my wife’s eyes.

It’s a hyper-clean, orderly, exquisite place.