Once on a cruise-ship vacation, the staff conducted a little gameshow for the passengers to enjoy. I happened to stop by that floor, and for some reason, I sat and joined the crowd.
The contest was apparently about love, so partners would answer questions about each other, and the team with the highest total accurate guesses would win. The first participants were ushered on stage and put in chairs. This first pair up was a married man and woman who looked to be in their late sixties, or maybe early seventies. They were both just average-looking people, her hair all bushy, a string of pearls around her neck, a loose and flowery shirt. He had short gray hair and was very stout.
The questions alternated. She would answer a question about him on a white board, and he would write the correct answer down on his own. The boards would be checked for a match, and then a question would go to him, and so on. Pretty classic gameshow stuff.
The first question was something like, “What is his favorite musician?”
She wrote her answer without a second thought. Ding ding ding! Correct! She gave a smile that said, Of course I know that. I’ve been married to him for fifty years. I love him.
Next question went to him. “What is her favorite food?” She paused and wrote her truth on her board. He sat there, staring blankly at his, and eventually wrote something like “quiche”. They held them up and it didn’t match. She seemed to take it in stride. No biggie. It’s a difficult question.
Next, her turn. “What is his favorite show?” She again wrote her answer quickly. They held up their boards. “And here we have it folks, the news! It’s a match!”
The next question went to him and was, “What’s her favorite hobby?” He took a long time as before, but then scribbled something down, held up his board and read, “Cooking me dinner.” Wrong. Her answer was painting. Fucking painting.
He laughed. “Well, she’s good at it! Cooking.”
I instantly gauged her expression. Sadness. Upturned eyebrows promptly masked by a tight smile. Faint shock, and utter humiliation.
The last question went to her. “Where did you first meet?”
I could have sworn I saw the slightest tremble in her lips and hands when she wrote down the exact location of their first meeting. “X Diner in Tuscaloosa, 1954.”
He simply wrote, “Tuscaloosa, AL.”
The host bellowed, “Aw, we’ll give it to ‘em! Thanks so much guys, very good!”
They rose and stepped down from the stage, and as I focused on her expressions, I saw the unmistakable face of a woman about to cry. He, meanwhile, was laughing and enjoying the attention.
I couldn’t watch anymore and felt the tears well up in my eyes as I left the room. I travelled up to the deck. As I stared at the water I couldn’t help but wonder about this poor lady, surrounded by young, carefree, joyous women with the world at their fingertips. This was supposed to be an enjoyable getaway, but instead became a clear reminder that her marriage was no more than an artifact from a time where one’s sole purpose as a married woman was to cater to her husband. He was the center of her universe, and she was humiliated as just a trivial butt of a joke, a mere portion of his life he was by no means obligated to know intimately as a person.
That may not be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, but it’s in the top three. I’ll never forget her trembling face with eyes cast downward in shame.
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