I can't understand.
I can't understand my husband at all.

He had seemed charming enough when he courted me, bringing me every Sunday morning to the seaside just to watch the sun rise, and the spectacle of pinks and purples that surrounded it. Back then, we would playfully address each other with our special nicknames. He was Mister Anderson, for his charming personality, and I was Miss Candy, because, he said, I was sweet, and every time we kissed he would liken the taste of my lips to a confection.
But now,he's totally different.

He would, back then, wear the same white suit every day we dated. I do not remember him ever being in a football jersey, a T-shirt, or even a collared shirt without a jacket. It was always, always that white suit. I even joked once that perhaps he slept in that suit as well.
But now I know, I shouldn't have done that to his face.

Back then, he was a bit of a neat freak. In his white bag, he would carry a bottle of sanitizer for every time we rode a rented bicycle, or stroked stray cats, or even after using the local hawker center cutlery. He was quite so very protective of his sanitizer, for reasons that I cannot comprehend till today.
I did try to separate his sanitizer from him once. I'll never try again.

When we married, the apartment we moved into was white. The walls were white. The lamps were white. The sofa was white. The television was a pearl pink color, which came as some form of respite from all the white, but then again, not a very good one, since the floorboards, dining table, chairs, bedsheets, air-conditioner... every conceivable inch of furniture that could be rendered in white, was white. And I didn't object.
I couldn't object.

I couldn't object when he carved "MISTER ANDERSON" on the left bedpost, and "MISS CANDY" on the right bedpost. Or when he halved the bed with his bolsters and insisted we never make love. Nor could I when he insisted I give up my job to stay at home and do the housework. Or when he wielded his white leather belt at me after I squeezed my tube of toothpaste (we had one tube each - I couldn't bear to have mine in white) in the center, and not at the end.

But I don't want to leave him; I love him too much.

If I leave him, who will take care of him after his mother passes on? Who will cook for him, clean his house, press his socks to perfect crispness? Who will take his ten white suits to the dry-cleaner's one at a time? Who can remember perfectly the special requests for the care of his suits, and who can remember the way to get to the only place in this entire country that sells the one brand of imported sanitizer he uses? Who else but me can remember the exact cost of the brass letters for "MISTER ANDERSON" and "MISS CANDY"? Who, I ask you, who?

He needs me. Somewhere in his heart, there is a voice, and it tells him everyday, "Gabriella loves you with all her heart, and you need her. You need her because no one else will look after you, or cook or clean or press your socks, or take your suits to the dry-cleaner's, or remember the way to get to the place that sells the sanitizer you use, or bother with your idiosyncrasies the way she does."
At least, I hope so. A girl can only do so much, can't she?

- - -

I can't understand.
I can't understand my wife at all.

All she does nowadays is talk about "when we dated", "those days past", "those halcyon days". I think she reads too much. A woman should not read. A woman should stay at home and pander to her husband's every need. She should come when she is called, either by name or by the simple contraction "Woman.". She should cook and clean and love him with all her little heart, while the men, so pure, so strong, so beautiful, leave their comfort zones every day, to face the challenges of everyday work.

I, Mister Anderson, am the hero of my own life's story, and Miss Candy should not object, being a woman, of course. Miss Candy should support me, and I deserve this support, the way Lois Lane supports Superman, or the way Mary Jane supports Spiderman.

I am clean, perfect and beautiful. To hell with female rights, I say, for we men were meant to be the stronger gender, and we were destined for great things, things that women should not even dream of.
I don't know why they even invented female rights. Can't a man raise a belt against a woman who tries to call him "hubby" or some other condescending name like that? Why do they have to "establish a balance"? Is it so wrong for the man to be better?

Women are lower creatures, whose hapless lives are meant to be spent finding a man, and after that, serving the man. Miss Candy was lucky she found me, for no other could compare to me. She did not choose me - I chose her. And she ought to remember that before she starts reminiscing about our dates and whatnot again.

She is, after all, a dispensable liability in my perfect life.

However, in my mind, a little thought eats at me everyday.
It asks, "Will she turn out like Miss Monroe? Will she end up like Miss Trinity? Or perhaps, god forbid, Miss Dorothy?"

No, no, that will not do. Those three were too intelligent for their own good. Far too smart for a woman's deserved intellect. They tried to escape. And what of those before them? Fools. They were fools to believe they could outsmart I, Mister Anderson, world famous chef.

But if this one does go awry, at least another round of my legendary char siew pau will go on sale again.