Meena reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”
The front porch is brightly lit because the lights are on timers. Inside it’s pitch-dark and quiet. I flip on lights, pushing back my irritation that my husband hasn’t even left a single light on, because that would require a moment of thought about someone other than himself. In the kitchen, I pour a final glass of courage, which I carry upstairs.
Nate’s already in bed. He’s on his back, his arms flung wide. His snores are loud and ragged. This, of course, is not exactly a turn-on. But I am a woman on a mission.
In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and slip the neatly pressed negligee over my head. If I squint and angle my body just right, I do not look too old for sex. At least not in this light.
The expensive “date night” perfume is buried in the back of my medicine cabinet covered in dust. I spritz it in strategic spots, then slather on moisturizer that my skin sucks in like a desperate woman downing a last cocktail at closing time.
I don’t let myself think about how long it’s been—it’s like riding a bike, right? I especially don’t think about exactly what I’ll say afterward or how things might turn out. I want the sex to be good. Proof that we can still “connect,” that the spark can still be ignited.
In the bedroom, I walk to where Nate is sprawled and snoring and pull back the covers. His chest is bare, the hair that covers it more white now than dark. His pajama bottoms are bunched below his stomach; his legs are windmilled. The pajama placket gapes open.
I wait for him to wake and look up, but his eyes remain shut. The snoring continues.
“Nate?” My voice is low and husky. “Na-aaa-te?” I coo as provocatively as I can.
The only thing moving is his chest. Air whistles through his lips as he snores.
This is not the response I was hoping for. But I do not retreat. I crouch between his legs and contemplate what lies before me. His penis flops out of the placket and curls wormlike against his thigh.
I remember an ancient joke that asks, What do you get if you have a large green ball in one hand and another large green ball in the other? Complete control of the Jolly Green Giant.
With a small smile, I take him in my palm. His eyes remain closed, but the body part I’m holding thickens.
“Nate?”
“Hmmm?”
“What would you like to see happen here?”
His eyes open. There’s a weariness in them I’m not used to, but his lips quirk upward.
“I don’t know. I’ve been dragging something awful all day. I feel like I might be fighting off the flu. But at the moment I’m tempted to just leave myself in your hands.”
“Very funny,” I say.
His eyes flutter shut mid-smirk. I consider my options. I could give up on pleasuring either of us and table the conversation until tomorrow. But I know this man almost as well as I know myself. He’s a lot more likely to be receptive to what I have to say once he’s lolling in postcoital satisfaction.
“Hang on, then. I’ve got this.” With a smirk of my own, I hike up the negligee and position myself above him, rubbing up and down until I’m wet and he’s hard. Slowly, I lower myself onto his erection. He groans, his head rolling from side to side, as I settle myself. His hands cup my buttocks when I begin to ride. They drop away as I find my rhythm, raising and lowering myself, seeking out the friction, reveling, forgetting everything including my mission as the delicious tension builds. My eyes close. My head falls back. I let myself remember the first time we made love, the look in his eyes when he asked me to marry him, the day we brought Ansley home from the hospital. Then I lose myself in the motion, in riding him, feeling the tension mount to that exquisite breaking point just beyond the edge of reason.
His body goes rigid. He spasms, bucks. His wordless shout spurs me on as he erupts, catapulting me over the edge, into the stratosphere. Into free fall. Until I collapse on top of him, both of us slick with sweat. His heartbeat beneath my ear is a runaway freight train.
“Wow.” We’re both trying to catch our breath as I drag myself off him. Nate’s still gasping on the bed when I throw the covers up over him and stagger to the bathroom, where I pull on a robe, wash my face, and brush my teeth. It takes some time to calm down and remember what I wanted to say.
When I get back to the bedroom, Nate’s still lying flat on his back but is no longer gasping for breath. He appears to be staring up at the ceiling. Since he’s not snoring, I assume he’s awake.
“Nate?”
I climb into bed, my back against the headboard. I still feel warm and tingly from the orgasm and hope Nate does, too. In truth, I’d rather go to sleep—maybe even curled up in his arms—than talk, but I’m not sure I can sleep without getting everything off my chest.
“Nate? Are you listening?”
He doesn’t answer, but his head lolls in my direction.
“Fine. Just listen, then. There are things I need to say.” I draw a breath. “First of all, you butt-dialed me from Italy. Do you have any idea what it feels like to hear your husband tell a total stranger that he’s ‘only going through the motions’?”
Again, no response. But I can see the edge of his eyelashes, so I assume his eyes are open.
“Well, it sucks. And I am not a ‘good egg,’ damn it! I’m a person. A woman. Your wife. And what we just did together proves that there’s still a spark. Only we both have to fan it to keep it alive.”
I’m on a roll now. I get out of bed. Eager to lay it all out, to persuade him, I begin to pace the room on my side of the bed, ticking the points off on my fingers. “I believe we can find a way to regain what we’ve lost. We just have to want to. I need you to understand who I am. And care about what’s important to me.” I reach the end of the bedroom with its view of what used to be the Parkers’ house and turn. “We’re comfortably off, the kids are self-sufficient. This could be the best time of our lives. If we want it to be. But we have to share ourselves and take care of each other.” I swallow. “I wasn’t put on this earth to take care of you and make your life run smoothly. I should never have acted like that was all I was capable of or wanted. And you shouldn’t have let me.”
I stop and turn at the head of the bed. Once again, I wait for him to comment. To agree or disagree. To tell me he loves me and that he’ll try harder, do better. Or even that he’s done. But he just lies there.
“I can’t believe this.” The hope I’ve been nursing begins to evaporate. I thought that sex might rekindle the spark and facilitate this conversation, but I’m the one who’s turned an orgasm into something more than it was. “I’m pouring my heart out here and you have nothing to say?”