Work Text:
Every day, I write the book—the book of what it’s like to be married to him.
Sometimes, it ends when I get out of bed; other times, it stops at the front door of the Planet; once, I spent a whole month constantly writing, each phrase dutifully memorized and logged in the back of my brain.
Across each variation, it starts nameless and nearly the same: I wake in my bed, and he is warm.
It’s a physical sensation at first: “his heat warms the blankets”, or “his fingers burn mine”. As the day goes by, that warmth surrounds all else. Warm is his voice when he murmurs good morning; warm are his eyes before his mouth meets mine; warm are the breakfast foods he bakes for me, his body nearly glowing in that morning golden light.
Warm is the thought of him, even when my bed turns up empty and cold.
The book I write is about the man in-between—the one standing shirtless in the kitchen or switching to pyjamas before bed, the one washing off space goop in the shower, and … admittedly, I just like it when he’s naked, but the symbolism stands—out of his glasses, out of his cape, he doesn't have to perform anymore. Out of his shirt, he is mine alone.
(And if I occasionally write a chapter solely about his chest, well, it’s a good thing this book is all in my head).
My book tells the story of the man who hears trouble miles across town and who rushes towards it solely on the hope that he can help. More than that, it's the story of the wink my way before he does, the air that brushes by my cheeks and the excuses that leave my lips in his stead. It's a book about secrets and soft little things.
It's pages of pure, cheesy sentiment. Heaven forbid I hand it to Perry, it’d come back slashed in red ink.
Readers search for sensation. They want to hear about dates on the moon and trips through time, hostage negotiations and being flown around the world on a whim. Few wonder about Clark’s favourite cows on the farm; most ask about Superman’s prowess in bed. (Even just as his reporter, I’m sent their graphic theories in the mail).
Most of all, they want to know who is “worthy” to be The Wife.
I need to put aside my sense of identity when I hear these questions and approach it as if I’m interviewing myself, the anonymous author. Do I, The Wife, have powers? Do I fight alongside him? Am I, The Wife, Wonder Woman or Power Girl or that Red Superwoman? Am I a Kryptonian too?
The book in my head never answers those questions, and, curse of my ego, I don’t think it ever smartly would. I’d type down the answer in one blunt bolded line, screw anonymity and say:
“I am Lois Lane. You already know who I am.”
They can fill in the gaps themselves.
But the readers wouldn't like that, and my husband and I share enough with the world already.
So every day, I write the book… and every night, I tear it up again.