He found the series of commands every day to be an easy way to recalibrate. Reach the house. Step out of the car. Open the garage side door. Tiptoe in the house. Undress in the side bathroom. Get in bed. Sleep. And he ran through them with a sort of metallic obliviousness to her- yet it was the oblivion which comes from a lack of understanding on how to properly communicate.
Montrose found his new life was little more than a long string of commands. From the boss. From the car. Occasionally, from the woman he loved dearly and called his wife. He wondered what she thought... But nonetheless, the found all of the commands bearable, for he was a believer in the prospect that all of the seemingly pointless commands and tasks would someday unify into something with a greater purpose, even if it was not during his lifetime, even if it was not to be experienced by him.
He had been lectured and otherwise informed extensively on the importance of respecting women, especially the woman in his life. His mother was a sex counselor, and found it quite important, especially given she was female. And Montrose found it quite important himself as well, and he took care to understand what he could. So he did his best to do what the important women in his life said, and that seemed to satisfy them. He found the task-command-obedience response was typically enough in most situations with women. Yet he missed the entire point, because such a form of thinking failed to allow the establishment of intimate relationships...
And he hoped he would find out if his wife was okay with it. He felt a slight uneasiness as he walked through the front door, and wondered briefly if it was due to him coming home later than usual, or simply a product of the inevitable nervousness from a new marriage. He tiptoed through the door guarding the bedroom, for it was light at night, and his wife would surely be asleep... And then he pulled his weary-but-young bones into bed.
Yet he was shocked to see his wife out of bed, for he was trying extensively to not disturb her sleep.
The edge of Rania's eyebrows and lips and eyes appeared to be in some sort of anguish, but he did not know what it meant. He made a note to ask later... Automatically, instinctively, his body reacted in the same way. Yet he had yet to discover the reason for her strange expression. They stood there, by the right side of the bed, for a few seconds, until she broke the silence.
"Why do you do this to me? And yourself? Evety day, Monday through Friday, you stumble in and stumble out of that door. You leave me here, without having any idea what you are doing, or where you're going, or who you're going to see." Her chin furled at the last as an attempt to shame him into the details of the affair he must be having. "They don't pay you anything extra for working overtime. You know that.
"We've known each other for six years. But now I feel like I don't know you. You're gone almost all the time five days a week, maybe six, if I'm lucky. When you aren't here sleeping, you're at work. Or wherever else you might go. Half the time, you wake me up trying to get through the door at who knows when.
"You have to stop this. It's not only for a month. They're going to hold you in the cage forever. They got you, and they're not going to let you out. Unless you do something else.
"It would be nice if I could see you more than several hours a day. No, in fact, I demand it. You have to pick, it's either me or the job. You can't get both."
Montrose was stunned at the rapid release of information. He had been wondering what she was thinking, yet he lacked the courage to do so. And, when he thought about it, everything seemed clearer now. And the clarity was not from his work, not from his political power, not from his money. It was from his wife, the one he cared the most about, but nonetheless felt unable to connect with.
Montrose had acquired the ability to disassociate the potential emotional connections and the job necessary to perform. It was a virtue at work, allowing him to maximize his output and accomplishments, all of which furthered his ego. Yet the skill proved an obstacle in relationships, in friendships, in marriage... And it would not be an issue, except that he lacked the mental switch. Thus, the lack of ability to form a personal connection was perhaps the main factor in the lack of unity then present in their marriage.
Sometimes the best response is simply to take it all in, with respect and diligence, and listen. Sometimes a curved lip or changed in stance is all it takes to communicate that she wished not for him to obtain the last word. And he also showed that he was going to work on the issue, and that he had not been aware of it, yet nonetheless realized its importance. Montrose was unable to read her expression-he simply had nothing to say in response. Yet she was more than able to read his changes in stance and speech and moving eyes and so forth, a gift attributed to many women. A gift which often proves quite advantageous in close relationships, such as marriage.
Montrose continued his routine, glad for the enlightening pause. Undressed. Got in bed. And he thought about everything she said, and then he ran through potential outcomes and methods to solve the problem. He was oblivious to the notion that his failure to account for her perspective was important in determining the best path, especially en route. But it was not that he chose ignorance; rather, it was due to a lack of understanding of how to connect with those lacking a Y chromosome.
Yet his decision to show up a bit late to work that Wednesday proved wise, and he truly considered it the best option. For he was vaguely aware of which way the wind blew, and he did not want Rainy to leave, because he would need her in the storm. In the materialistic world he found himself submerged in, it was easy to forget one's path, and to wander astray. And he would spend many years attempting to find the right path.
Men often do not realize what is right in front of them. This is natural, innate, perhaps, and it usually fails to develop into a problem. The women in their lives simply have to make everything very clear, or else they will likely fail to miss an important key of the puzzle. Such delivers for sound support in favor of the notion of maintaining the heterosexual marriage losing ground today.
Such was more or less the case with Montrose. He did his best to pay attention to the small details and signals from his wife. But it took much work, and sometimes he still failed to understand. Yet he considered it normal, unaware that many have much higher abilities of perception, so he generally failed to ask for clarification...
And he felt like he could not have asked what the signs meant. For part of being a man is developing and applying the developing ability to solve problems; and when he found no meaning in the signal, he often denied its existence, as if he could will it away.
Such was more or less the reason why he was more than a bit surprised when his wife told him quite explicitly what she thought and how she felt: for she assumed he was reading the signals, and that it would not come to him as a shock. Yet most men need these things when beginning the journey of marriage, and they are thankful for them, because they respect the individual speaking, and because they recognize the importance of the messages.
So it was a great leap of faith he made that morning. He decided to ask Rania to be less subtle, or to explain what the gestures and changes in pitch meant to her. He would also try to share his motives more frequently and clearly. After all, there is nothing a married man should want on Earth more than his wife to be satisfied with him, and Montrose was no exception. His desire for it was simply hidden under a thick coating of work and stress and money and power, and he found it cumbersome but impossible to remove the coating.
He decided to do something special for her that morning. He would cut out a little time from his hectic schedule, so that they could connect and develop a plan or path with which to proceed in the great journey known as Life.
Or a lot of time. He was accustomed to waking up much earlier than her. Sometimes, it would take him hours-or so it seemed- to crawl out of bed without her awakening.
Rania woke up, at last, at 7:29. After all, a childless newlywed wife has a bit less busy of a schedule than her working male counterpart, on average.
What is it about this job that matters so much to him? She had processed the news of his potential raise in exchange for about a month's work of overtime. Before they had married, his job was about five hours a day: less than most people's hours, and he certainly made more than the average Joe.
She remembered the way he used to rub on her every night. He always felt to cold physically, yet there was a sense of masculinity which radiated heat. She wished he would do it again-
And then, with an agitated sigh, she realized he was gone. Again. Why did he leave the light on last night? And why the hell was the coffee maker brewing?
When she saw him at the table, she was overjoyed. For it was Friday. He usually left earlier than usual on Fridays. He should have left by now, if he was going to work. Of course, with his salary, he could quit at any time altogether... And it spread through her beautifully designed brain instantaneously; the way a woman knows when her husband has news.
Maybe they could really talk now. She had wanted some kids for a while.
"You're still here!" As much as she was confused, there was an ability to find the correct words in any situation, a virtue she inarguably possessed.
"Yeah, honey. I wanted to tell you something."
"I was just hoping we could talk about how things are going." She delivered through with a modestly promiscuous-looking smile, an attempt to prepare him for her high drive.
She reached over and pulled him in. As affectionate side of his mind reemerged, he realized he was to do the same. He kissed her there, and there was an intermission of it, back and forth. At last, they let go, for she was gasping for air. His well-built arms let go.
"Apparently your work isn't as important as me now." That's what she would have said, if he did not brush her lips against his again, sending a jolt through their souls. And she would have been glad she did not say it if she knew, for that could have turned into an argument.
"I've been wanting several kids my whole life, so..." She added another smile on the end, hoping it would convince him. From what she knew- and she was always right- he gave in. After all, there are times when a man should think before giving his woman an answer, and there are times when he should just not argue.
When he considered it some more, in the brief, brief, time period he had to respond... He did not consider it. As he sat there last night, he realized she wasn't getting nearly enough time. But there was more to it than that, he realized. Marriage isn't supposed to be a measure of balancing priorities simply using cold-equation derivatives: the thoughts, the wellbeing of the other as the whole are not to be dismissed.
He actually felt a little guilty.
"Sounds good to me. Let's try tonight, honey." He hoped he stuttered out an acceptable answer.
"Don't come home too late," she threw back, half joking, half serious. How was he supposed to take that? But he didn't. He kissed her again and left.
Throwing his long, supple frame into the Aventador screaming for attention in the garage, he realized his wife lacked as much attention and affection from him as the carbon-fiber sports car in the garage. Trying to battle a wave of contradicting emotions, he turned on the engine. Push to start. And he drove away.
Their humble abode sprawled over several acres, drawing the attention of those around for miles to come. It was one of the largest, most secluded mansions in the world, hidden in a little town just outside of
When the place was being built, Montrose insisted upon a wing reserved for the six hundred-something guards on constant surveillance over the estate. After all, there were many who would give anything to assassinate several of the wealthiest men and women in the world, and Montrose was determined to prevent that from happening. In addition, all of the windows contained bulletproof, one-way glass, to eliminate the risk of break-ins.
The couple in The One Percent spent most of their time in the right wing. It was home to their penthouse, a fourteen-story tower with a massive base supporting its hulking construction of wood, steel, titanium, and concrete.