One of my favorite stories that I like to reference is when Prince Charles, at that time, was betrothed to Diana Spencer. There’s a famous news clip of the young couple, probably the BBC, with a reporter asking Diana about being in love. Diana shyly answers “of course” but Charles in a moment worthy of an impending Shakespearean tragedy, says, “whatever that means.” I remember his answer so well because it resonated so much for me. I, too, am skeptical of love. What does love mean? Is it a wish upon the stars? Does it come with sexual urges? Is is content with mere presence or proximity to the object in question? Or does it want to narrow the gap and press so close to one’s heart’s desire so as to create a vacuum so air tight that one is joined together with the other like a freak of nature? And if that is love, why does it end, sometimes so abruptly like a bad French movie. Maybe I should say, a typical French movie. No disrespect intended, I love French cinema. Maybe this piece should be titled, “On Love.” But that’s for another day. Anyways, my point is, if ever there was a man who knew for sure what love is, it’s Prince Charles. His patient wait to be reunited with his love Camilla is worthy of a Jane Austen novel, an English writer I have never been compelled to read. First comes love, then comes marriage, we are told. I told myself, I loved Kamal. I comforted myself by using my intellect to conclude that it must be love. Like a mathematical proof. I want therefore I love. He was perfect on paper. He was made just so like a bespoke men’s suit straight out of Saville Row. Smugly, I congratulated myself for not falling hopelessly in love but being awake and alert. Unlike those silly girls, I will maintain who I am within the sanctity of my marriage. I will guard my integrity and defend it to the end. It was less marriage and more akin to war. Not the civil kind, but a revolution. I mustn’t be colonized, bullzoed over, I told myself. That’s what my husband loved about me. My identity, my personhood. With our domains established and our levels set, we communicated on an even plane. I told him the best thing about us is how well we argued. It was coherent. We had logical flow. While fighting, I was also out-of-body, observing the fight and judging it. Call it quantum fighting with me as the observer of our double split entangled waves. Will the fighting couple harmonize into one with me as the observer? Will the experiment hold? To be fair, our arguments were heated. We were, and still are, both proud, stubborn and strong-willed characters. Often times, I was brought to tears. My husband coined the phrase “using all your intelligence” for when I stretched myself to prove like a lawyer fighting a hopeless case all the while knowing her client is innocent, that I was right and he was wrong. Because of all our regular battles (I blame Britain), he knew me so well and I knew him like the back of my hand. Now that we are divorced, I realize there’s so much they don’t tell you. Whomever, the proverbial “they” are. Even when you are divorced for the right reasons, and it was the best course of action, there’s so much pain. Having invested all this time and effort, fighting, loving, hurting, comforting, it is like a well-honed muscle that has withered, atrophied. I miss having someone who knows me so well. Someone who knows what I am not saying but thinking, feeling. I miss telling him my weird but wonderful stories without expounding into the context, the premise to set it up. I am not some exotic bird whose life story defies logic. To him, I made sense and he just understood. And he appreciated me like I wanted to be seen. Who has the energy to build up another life from scratch? To tell the same stories, share the same quirks? Learn his likes, dislikes, his being, his essence all over again? And most importantly, fall in love. Well and truly in love. Whatever that means.