My Husband Has Been Reading My Mind for Three Years

Three years into a marriage I signed in a Century City conference room, here is what I know about my husband: Caspian Vale takes his espresso black, reads scripts at the kitchen island in reading glasses he won't admit he needs, and has not once, in thirty-six months, asked me what I'm thinking.

This has been, on balance, a relief.

My husband is the most withholding leading man of his generation. The New Yorker used that exact phrase. He is gaunt and grey-eyed and walks like a man who has been told, repeatedly, that stillness photographs better than gesture. Two Oscar nominations, one BAFTA, a body of work that Letterboxd users describe with the word devastating. I had a folder on my laptop labeled CV before I ever met him. I have never told him this. I will die before I tell him this.