The Little Match Girl

I leave to buy wine and wooden matches because he has fallen asleep again and friends are coming over for dinner.

I leave so that he will call and irrationally yell at me for disappearing.

These are my thoughts.
These are my actual thoughts.

Scott does not call because Scott is not an emotionally abusive husband. He is an incredibly reasonable young man and an incredibly exhausted young teacher on a Friday afternoon.

Do I wish for an abusive marriage like I once naively wished for an abusive childhood?






Perhaps.

I used to daydream about being an orphan. Not because I didn't like my family. I loved my family, but I also loved the idea of a childhood drenched with tears, hunger pains, and adventures.

My favorite book was called The Little Match Girl. It was the story of a young girl who runs away from home in freezing winter weather with only a box of matches to keep her warm. She dies alone on the street.

Secretly, I was jealous of the little match girl's fascinatingly sad story.

Years later, there is still little struggle in my life. I struggle occasionally with depression, loneliness and a simple satisfaction for life, but I do not need matches to survive.

I only need matches for ambiance.



When I return home an hour and a half later, Scott had just woken up from his nap. He isn't yelling. He's smiling. And so am I, relieved that tragedy has only struck my imagination and not my reality.