“Why?” she asks in a small, shaky voice. “Is it because I can’t have babies? I’ll go back to the fertility doctor, I just needed a break—”
“That’s not it.” I stop her downward spiral. We’ve been trying for children for a year now. Secretly, I was happy when it didn’t happen. “I wish I could explain it. I wish I could tell you I’ve found someone else, that I’m a cheating bastard. I wish I could tell you I’ve developed a drug habit or taken up gambling. I wish I could say anything that would make sense. But it’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” she pleads.
“I’m not in love with you. Not in the way a husband should love his wife.”
She nods sadly and quietly sniffles. “Maybe you’re stressed. We could take a vacation. We could go back to Bali. Pretend we’re on our honeymoon.”
“If you remember, we had a terrible honeymoon,” I remind her.
We waited until we were married to have sex and when I couldn’t step up to the plate, it caused a rift. At the time, I was certain it was due to nerves or performance anxiety. But that’s a lie because we’ve never been very good in the bedroom. The last five years, we’ve only made love a handful of times.
“Are you not attracted to me? Is that it? I know I’ve gained weight. I got comfortable after we married.” She ignores my comment the way she’s ignores my inability to please her.
“Maiz, you’re beautiful. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you. I don’t know what’s missing between us, but it’s something. If it were only me I was concerned with, I’d stay married to you forever. But I don’t want to hear you cry in the bathroom when you think I’ve left for work. Or see the disappointment in your eyes every time I’m unable to satisfy you.”
“I know we’ve had issues,” she says in her shy voice that’s reserved for when we attempt to talk about sex. “But I can change. I can read books or we can see a therapist.”
“You’re not hearing me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I’m asexual or something. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with your attractiveness. It’s not only you I’m not attracted to, it’s every woman. I’m broken, and I’m so sorry I didn’t realize this before we were married. I’m an asshole who doesn’t deserve you.”
I’ve probably said too much, but Maisy has an uncanny ability to overlook the obvious, so I don’t panic.
“You’re not any of those things.” She shakes her head adamantly.
“Perhaps not.” I don’t press the issue. We had similar childhoods and had very conservative views pressed upon us. For me to open up about my real theory on why my dick doesn’t respond to her would throw her very delicately balanced reality off its hinges.
She dries her eyes with the palms of her hands. “We don’t need to have sex. We can keep everything the same. We’re more than physical urges. You’re my best friend.”
“You’re my best friend too. But you’re entitled to a fulfilling marriage. I can’t give that to you.”
“This is just perfect,” she hisses, her attitude changing from sad to angry in the blink of an eye. She pushes away my hands from where they rest on her legs and raises to her full height. “My parents are going to give me so much crap about this. I can hear my mother’s voice telling me she told me so.”
She grabs our plates and storms into the kitchen. I hear the clank of the china being tossed into the sink, causing me to flinch. I knew her rarely expressed temper would make an appearance and honestly, it’s better than her despondency. At least with anger, she’ll yell and say horrible things about me. I deserve to be punished.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I were a better man.”
She returns to the dining room, bottle of wine in hand. She picks up her wine glass from the table and stomps toward the bedroom. “Fuck you, Lance. You wasted the best years of my life.”
She slams the bedroom door behind her. I stand frozen for a long time, listening to her sobs. She’ll thank me for this someday. She’ll find someone who can’t keep their hands off her. They’ll make her feel beautiful and cherished. I won’t be jealous. I’ll be grateful that I was strong enough to give her a gift she didn’t know she wanted.
I make my way to the kitchen and clean up. I’ve ruined her dinner, she shouldn’t have to clean up as well. Then, I go to my office and convert the sofa into a bed. I quickly shower and climb under the covers. With the lights out, I lie in bed, staring at the sunburst pattern in the plaster of the ceiling.
I’m going to miss this apartment.
I’m going to miss New York.
Maisy doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve accepted a new job at a hospital in a small town in Maine. A colleague of mine, Shawn, told me his father was retiring and had begged him to move and take over. But Shawn loves the city and couldn’t imagine leaving. He was surprised when I approached him the next day, asking if he could give me a referral. Turns out, I didn’t need one. Beacon Island Hospital hired me with few questions asked. They were growing desperate.
My salary will be cut in half and the hospital is so small, I’ll be the only full-time hospitalist. But it’ll get me far away from a life I shouldn’t have created. Far away from my mistakes and lapses in judgement.
Hours pass while my mind wanders. I have so much to do and not much time to do it. I’ll leave all of our acquired material possessions to Maisy. She can sell it all, smash it in to a million pieces, or keep everything as is. I don’t care, but I don’t want any of it. I need a fresh start.
Around three a.m., I hear the creak of the door opening. Maisy pads into the room and crawls under the covers. I open my arms to her and she snuggles into my chest.
“You’re right. I know you are. But it hurts,” she whispers.
I knew if she took the time to really think things through, she would see this is for the best. She would uncover all the signs from over the years and then know how much better things could be for her. She’s an intelligent woman, both emotionally and logically. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to spend my life with her.
Unfortunately, love isn’t enough.
I sigh. “I know. I wish I could take away the pain, but the growing pains are necessary.”
She climbs on top of me and rests her forehead to mine. “Will you please make love to me?”
I begin to push her off, so good at rejecting her, it’s an impulse. But then I stop. If there’s one thing I can give her, it’s this. I’ve changed the entire trajectory of her life. Surely, I can give her the one thing she’s always wanted from me. Intimacy.
So instead, I trick my body into responding the way I’ve done more than once. I kiss her and worship her. I make her come once with my tongue and then again on my dick. I orgasm too, but it’s weak and fills me with no satisfaction. For me, sex is like peeing or burping. Something my body tells me I need to do, but I don’t feel any particular way about it. It’s a bodily function, plain and simple.
When I wake in the morning, she’s gone. While I’m making coffee and preparing to leave for work, I find a note.