I'm Patrick Wilson. I'm Your Skeptical Husband. I'm -- Well, I'm Just Not So Sure About All Of This

Listen. It’s me you’re talking to here. Patrick Wilson, your skeptical husband, furrowed brow, forehead high with suspicion, always pinching my eyes to look harder at you. Don’t you know you can trust me? Don’t I know I can trust you? Haven’t we always been in this house together, trusting each other? Haven’t we? Can’t I believe you? Can’t you believe me? Aren’t I your husband, six foot exactly, never had a mustache? You’re so nervous. I believe that. You’re so worried. I believe that. I believe my wife is worried. Of course I love you. You’re my wife, aren’t you? You’re my white wife. You’re the biggest worried legal baby whiteness ever made, and the state wrapped me all the way around you for the best-ever reasons. You’re my wife. Can you believe it? I just don’t know. It’s not that I don’t trust you, honey. It’s not that I don’t believe you. Just give me a minute. I’m about to start believing even more. I already believe you. But what do you want from me? I’m sure that you’re sure, and I’m sure you’re my wife, and I’m sure that we’re white and we’re worried, and I’m going to be in charge of okay. Okay? Look at me. Don’t you know I’m Patrick Wilson, that I’m every white husband God ever made, and that I’m all the way switched-on into belief? I couldn’t believe you more. I’m just not sure. God didn’t make me sure, but he did make me your husband. Can’t you see me in my husband shirt? Look at how much I’m your husband. Look at how hard I’m trying. I’m Patrick Wilson, and we’re married. Aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re married?

Let me try being your husband from over here for a minute. I’m your husband all the time, and I’m so tired. I’m exhausted. God, I’m exhausted. But I’m fine. I’m just tired, and nothing’s wrong. How can you ask me if something’s wrong? Don’t you know I’m Patrick Wilson, your husband, who married you inside of God’s most government, polo shirt tucked in? Aren’t I your husband with the thin leather belts, gold buckle summertime always, big bright morning smile, yes or no answers? Why are you so full of questions, instead of full of wife? It’s not that I’m not on your side. It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s not that I’m not telling you anything. It’s just not. I really do, I really am, I really can. I am relaxed. I’m so relaxed. I’m listening. Why don’t you try telling me again? I promise to lean forward, hands in lap, mouth slightly open, eyes up, blank face, no reaction, open eyebrows, head full of listening, hairline flinching.

Wife? I’m listening? Leaning back on the couch, fuzzy around the edges, background out of focus, big collared shirt, mouth squinting, eyes frowning, blurrier all the time, fuzzy husband shape, big coil of noticing wrapped all the way around you? I’m a six-foot puzzle and I just don’t know about this. I know a lot of things, but not this. I know you’re my wife, but I don’t know about anything else. What do you know? What does my wife know that I don’t know?

I am listening to my wife. Patrick Wilson is married, and he is listening to his marriage, and he cannot believe what he is hearing. Did I really marry what I’m hearing right now? I didn’t get married to listen to this. But I’m listening. I’m always husband, and fully listening, and Patrick Wilson is married to you and all of your worries. You’re not eating enough. You’re not sleeping enough. But don’t let me tell you what to do. I’m not angry. I’ve never been angry, only worried. I believe you! I support you! I told you I believe you! What else do you want from me? You want me to be sure? Do you want me to shout it? Do you want me to advance? Do you want me to show you how much I believe you? What kind of belief do you want from your milk-pie husband, everything’s-fine voice? WATCH ME BELIEVE YOU. WATCH ME BELIEVE YOU. I’M GOING TO START BELIEVING YOU NOW.

My wife? My wife? My wife my wife my wife? My? Wife! My wife? My! Wife? My wife — my wife? My wife! I’m your husband. I’m your husband. Wife, I’m your husband. You’re my white? You’re my white wife! You’re my worried white wife? I believe my worried white wife. My wife, she’s so worried – please, my white wife’s worry – please, I’m so blurry — Captain’s log, Patrick Wilson, Husband Academy, it’s white o’clock somewhere — I need to find my wife so I can tell her how much I believe her. You’ve got to believe me. Look at how well I can blink. Every six seconds, reliable as a Swiss husband. It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that I’m Patrick Wilson.

[Stills from Little Children, Angels in America, Fargo, Insidious]