Source: Kristina Litvjak / Unsplash
I can’t stop looking at one particular photo of Tom and me.
We’re at an art opening at a friend’s gallery, something we did often, along with many friends and acquaintances. Tom is wearing my favorite shirt—a long-sleeved button-up with a pattern of soft blue-and-white medallions. I am wearing sunglasses, a white scoop-neck blouse, and a pair of dangly earrings. I have a drink in one hand, and Tom has a longneck. We’re both facing the camera. Tom looks like he has just wisecracked, and I am leaning toward him with a smile of pure happiness.
We are TomandSophie. That couple.
I have always thought of good relationships as a Venn diagram: One person’s full life overlapping with another person’s full life, creating that middle part, where you blend and overlay and combine and develop something unique to the two of you. The middle part is the couple.
And that is the loss I am feeling these days, as I excavate the layers of grief.
A couple is more than just two people
The couple is more than the sum of its parts. It is the chemistry of two people. It exists both within and separate from the individuals. It lives in the private realm—there is little more inscrutable from the outside than other people’s relationships—and in the public. The couple is the intricate tapestry of our shared life, the secret language, the inside jokes, the deep knowing of each other in our most unguarded moments.
But there is also the public couple, the pas de deux of how you move through life, the face you together turn to the world. It is the separate strengths and interests and styles combined to create a persona of its own. Like two colors placed next to each other, each of you reflects onto the other. I was a writer married to a musician; Tom was a musician married to a writer. He was a wiseass curmudgeon; I’m friendly but standoffish. He knew everyone and everyone knew him; I lurk in corners. All the qualities that each of us had individually bounced off each other, creating their own energy. TomandSophie energy.
We had couple friends, and with them, we created an even more complex Venn of four individuals and two couples. Couple friends don’t always encompass individual friendships; they are a form of friendship unto itself.
From two to one
But now Tom is gone, and I’m thrown all off balance, like a wagon that’s lost one wheel. I wobble around, trying to maintain equilibrium, trying to find a space in the world as just me, without the imprimatur that Tom provided. Not being Tom’s wife leaves me feeling somehow naked, stripped of an identity I wore for decades.
I don’t suggest I’m nothing without Tom; my self-esteem isn’t that low. I have always occupied my own space in the world. But I am also different now. Being single is a notable change of social status. I no longer walk in the confidence of knowing that I have been chosen, that whatever happens, at least one person will always have my back, that I am part of a set, that I am not alone.
And I have come to understand couples’ privilege. In so many ways, life is easier to negotiate as a couple. Not only managing the logistics of adulting (keeping the fridge filled, taking out the garbage, paying bills), but social life is also harder. Couples go to dinner, have cocktails, see music, take vacations with their built-in companions so easily. For me now, any outing requires decisions (Alone or with someone? Who?), the awkwardness of extending invitations, the risk of being turned down, the effort of being entertaining when I really just want to get out of the house and eat a nice meal. When we were TomandSophie, all that was required was “Hey, you wanna…?” and off we went.
Alone sometimes feels weird
I do plenty of things on my own, although not always enthusiastically—more as a sort of a prophylaxis against isolation. I often spend more time getting ready to go out than I do actually being out. The other night I went to a party where I expected to know more people than I did. I’m not a good mingler (see: introvert), and if the party photographer had been there, the photo would have been of me alone, looking awkward, clutching a glass of wine. I felt vulnerable, weird, and lonely. I drifted from room to room, had three brief conversations, a deviled egg, and two fun-size candy bars, and slipped out the door less than an hour after I’d arrived. I shed a few tears in my car, then drove home to watch SNL on the couch with the dogs.
Quite honestly, even if Tom had been with me, we may or may not have stayed long. But how much more fun to catch someone’s eye across the room, exchange a secret signal each of you understands, and sneak out together. That feels less like a failure than delicious collusion.
Single people are thinking, “Yeah, welcome to my world.” And I get that. I do. Lots of people deal with being single and live perfectly lovely lives. But I’m still adjusting after living in a couple for 35 years. I was comfortable there. And happy. I miss it. I miss us. TomandSophie.
