On my morning train rides, I often find myself staring at women’s fingers, looking at engagement rings and wedding bands. At first, I blamed the fixation on natural inclination towards shiny things, and then, my line of work. This morning, though, half-dazed from a night of fitful sleep, I realized the reason I stare comes down to one question: What is it about this woman that someone decided was special enough to marry?
The question’s not meant to be harsh nor judgmental, but rather an inquiry into one’s nature, her characteristics, into what makes one person more remarkable than someone else, what her partner’s priorities are, what he values most and where she fits into his puzzle, what most satisfies him about her, and her about him. And everything else.
I find I can’t stop myself from wanting to pry into the love lives of the anonymous, and ask questions to which I know I can never obtain answers. And, in really thinking through everything that’s happened lately, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to that desire than just filling in the story lines of strangers.
M
