Just another night

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.

Silence.

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.”

Silence.

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.