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It didn't matter if their idea of romance was strange. Normalcy was for people who hadn't learned to work around it, Dr. Girlfriend figured. Everything else about their lives was strange, gross, weird. Everything was violence, insanity, brightly-colored costumes and paperwork declaring their exclusive right to be a certain type of themed criminal.
The last time she was at her mother's house, which was a rare trip and she remembered why, having to throw off questions with a learned grace, the subject came up. Not her lifestyle or career choice, which her mother regarded as a lost argument. Not her chain-smoking, which her mother had been concerned about in the past, but her relationship. He's taking care of you, isn't he?
"How can a crazy person like that take care of you?" her mother mused rhetorically, and Sheila rolled her eyes and sighed. When she was around her mother, she was Sheila. She had shrugged that name off a long time ago, like an old pair of worn-out shoes. It was a step into the past to visit her family and she didn't do it often. It was too awkward, and she encouraged a little mystique. Her mother had grayed prematurely; Sheila wondered how much of that was because of her.
"You've never really met him." Dr. Girlfriend rolled her tongue across her teeth and added to herself, And you probably won't.
"You won't let me. Are you ashamed of me?"
"Of course not."
"Or him?"
"No, not him either."
When she left later, it began to rain: big, dark heavy April raindrops, and she was driving off alone in the car. The beams of pale light from her headlights moved in tandem across curves and shone on the droplets, illuminated for a second before they plinked against the windshield.
Her head didn't swim much from the visit, because she taught it not to a long time ago. She didn't lie. She never lied to her mother. Not-telling and lying weren't the same thing.
"I hope he loves you," her mother said.
At the end of the road, standing like an impassive fortress, was the Cocoon, hidden as much as it could be back in the trees, waiting to welcome her into warm rooms. Car door open, she waited until the rain was splattering her coat to pop open her umbrella and wind her way soberly to its doors.
Love isn't always like the movies, she thought.
Love was subjective to the relationship, but some things were universally acknowledged as gestures of affection: flowers on birthdays, kind words at the right moment, ignoring flaws - sometimes unwisely.
They had all that. Maybe not the flowers, or hokey shit like that. Dr. Girlfriend knew they had love, and they had more. They had whatever this relationship was.
The Monarch was a seemingly hateful man and everything about him was so egregious and bold. His persona was built on grandiose speeches and massive ego. Even his laugh was large and damning. He called himself the king and she was his queen and she knew he was a psycho. And that it didn't matter.
He knew she was smarter than him, and that at any given moment she could step out, at any word. She knew sometimes he did things that treaded a thin line that Dr. Girlfriend herself didn't inch near, not really because of morality, but more from common sense. He had that ability to instantly piss off the wrong people.
She could remember one of the only times they had a conversation about their relationship honestly. She thought the Monarch had been asleep, but his breathing in the dark was clearly that of a conscious body.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, and he startled a little next to her, only a fraction of an inch.
"What makes you think I'm thinking?"
"You breathe like that when you think."
"You notice how I breathe?" He laughed and it was a genuine laugh, one of those reserved just for her.
"You're with someone so long," she replied, "and you notice weird things. We've been together long enough for that, I guess. I don't know."
"It's our anniversary in a week."
"You remember?"
"Ha! What an insult. I'm not that kind of guy. You think I'm that kind of guy?"
"I just thought it was weird." She closed her eyes and saw more darkness. "I had forgotten until now. Not that I forget a lot, so don't say anything, I just don't get that far in most relationships. I didn't know how to be with one person much."
The Monarch didn't say anything, but it wasn't an uncomfortable or angry silence. She matched his silence with her own, licked her lips.
A day after their anniversary, he asked her if she wanted an open relationship. She suggested they try swinging. It was more controlled, Dr. Girlfriend pointed out. She wondered if he was afraid of losing her.
She could remember this keenly and other conversations like it, and when she had sex with someone else, sometimes she thought of him and sometimes she didn't. Afterwards, there he was, and even if it wasn't happiness at times, it was certainty. Some people didn't have that. Was she lucky? Between the two of them, there were large arguments and resentments that popped out of nowhere, but at the end of the day, she was at his side. At the end of the day, they'd built this relationship and they were not standing hand in hand, but relaxed by each other, his hand often on the small of her back. He didn't hold her back or guide her. He just held on.
She was already wet by the time she reached the Cocoon and her head was full now, the umbrella swishing, rolled up at her side.
One last glance over her shoulder and she wondered if at a height she could see her mother's house. She squinted through the fog and all she saw was rain.
Inside, he waited, and he grinned, not commenting on her wet figure.
"There you are. Visit go well?"
"About as well as the rest," she answered, stifling a yawn for something to do with her hands. Otherwise she would've shrugged, giving away her strange mood.
"Eh, well, you don't have to visit her if you don't want to. No one says you have to. We have plans tonight!" he said, subject changing abruptly, his voice rising, a fist in the air. "Plans!"
"It better be dinner plans."
"We can discuss plans over dinner."
She smiled despite herself and pulled off her wet gloves, holding them in her hand, trying not to wring water on the floor. "She always asks me the same thing."
"Huh, really?" The Monarch raised his eyebrows.
"I never know what to tell her, but I know the answer. It doesn't really matter." It was understood: the words, the question, the meaning, but she didn't say it. She wondered if you loved me.
A few moments later, something caught fire and a henchman screamed from another room. The Monarch ran off to the source of the smoke.
"Shit, that had better not be the weapon! You dumbass, I should let you burn alive!"
She was brought back to their lives with a snap, rubbing her damp hands on her slim-fitting coat, a useless gesture because it was wet as well. She walked calmly towards the sound to head off a disaster. Her equally wet boots squeaked on the floor, but she did not slip, moving with the ease of practice.
She wondered if he knew where the fire extinguisher was, and seconds later, out of nowhere, the question, "Would I change this?" entered her mind, almost suddenly enough to make her stop walking.
The answer, despite the yelling, despite her exasperated smile, was no.