Well, only sort of.
He sat on the sofa while I made dinner. (The kitchen, living room, and dining room are all open to each other.) So we kind of carried on a conversation. I told him I probably would need to buy a suit so I could get the job I wanted. He asked me what I would wear the next day [after I got the job]. I told him I didn’t really want to have to wear a suit to work. I asked him how his mom was. He didn’t know.
I wondered if it was even possible to be married for twenty-plus years and still have good conversations with your spouse.
We got through dinner, although he managed to offend both of our daughters. And frustrate me.
After dinner, I sat on the sofa and put together a puzzle on jigzone. He sat in the rocking chair. Occasional comments. Stilted. Forced “conversation.” The clock ticked and I thought, “Thirty, forty more years of this?”
When I got up to go get ready for bed, he asked me if I would have sex with him tonight. I told him I didn’t know.
So when I got into bed, he said, “Is that a no?” I told him that I didn’t know, that I was afraid to cry.
I kept thinking, maybe I should. I want sex. Maybe it won’t be so bad this time. Maybe I should. Maybe I can do this.
And then, when I was almost ready to say o.k., he said, “I tried really hard this week. I rubbed your feet two times. I’m mad. You won’t even touch me.” Direct quote.
I said, “You’re mad at me because I cry when you have sex with me because it hurts me?”
He said, “No.”
I said, “You’re mad because you rubbed my feet?”
He said, “No.”
Then he said, “I’m in pain.”
I said, “I’m in pain, too.”
I wondered what to say, what to do. What is my part, my responsibility? I didn’t want to be codependent and “fix it” for him. But I also didn’t want to be unfair to him.
But then he got out of bed, put on his clothes, didn’t say a word, and left.
He drove off in my van. He’s never driven off before.
I wish he hadn’t taken my van.