Cynthia and I met on the morning of our wedding. She was wearing a beautiful dress. “It’s tradition,” she explained, “The schizophrenic women in my family wear wedding dresses at all times.”
After the vows we talked about our hopes and aspirations. “I attended Oxford on a video game scholarship,” Cynthia (presumably) lied, “but I would be willing to have your children if you promise they will be half-lions.” This was it. This was my new life.
The next few months were a blur of complicated, ritualistic sex and simpler, mostly ceremonial sex. Eventually we got a place in the suburbs to raise our kids. Much to Cynthia’s chagrin they were not half-lions, but she still treated them as such. “You will never make successful lawyers because we no longer live in mythical times,” she would tell the boys.
As the years passed Cynthia’s quirks became more and more medically understood, and I grew to love her. She was the mother of my cubs, and although she ruined their lives in many ways she never actively tried to kill them. Hurt them? Certainly. But never kill them. And I knew how much she wanted to.