mrs. alfar

When I was younger, I never truly considered marriage, thinking it to be an unnecessary shackle. I was surrounded by too many people who married young, for one reason or another, and were desperately unhappy. A lot of young husbands I knew treated their wives like a burden, disheartened at their loss of freedom. They were almost like strangers, bound together only by the children they had – never partners, never equals. Besides, given my intellectual arrogance, I didn’t think I’d find anyone who could challenge my mind.

Until I met Nikki.

It’s a long story best told another time, but it began with her surprising knowledge of John Byrne’s work, her love for “Sandman” and her uncanny ability to whip my ass at word games.

I married my best friend and I’m not embarrassed to say that she’s smarter than I am. She’s an accomplished writer, a mean competitor (and I thought I was harsh), an incredible mother and sexy as hell. I enjoy her company above all others because apart from loving her with all of my heart, I like her a lot – which, I realize, makes the difference.

It is possible, after all, to love someone without liking them.

We’ll be celebrating our seventh anniversary soon and it boggles my mind when I consider all we’ve been through, and all we look forward to doing together. All the wonderful and silly and insipid clichés you know about love, everything you think is fabrication from the supple lips of dreamy-eyed poets, all of that is true.

What do I want in life? Ultimately, it’s really simple.

I want to grow old with her by my side.

She’s Mrs. Alfar, my partner-in-crime.