Maybe, I thought, the libido of a certain kind of woman is an animal that lives a little and then crawls into a cave and lies there panting for a few decades until, with a final ragged pant, it expires. We speak in short, muffled bursts, loving to her, not unloving to each other. This might, I figured, be “real” marriage, harder deeper marriage, marriage opening its cute mouth all the way and showing the mess that was back there.Īccidental iPhone video of forty minutes in the kitchen one night, a view of the cutting board and the wallpaper: You can hear a baby and the banging of something metal and you can hear our two adult bodies rustling around the space, running water, sliding a knife into the knife holder, dragging a chair across the wood floor, opening and closing the fridge―a sound like a breath and then nothing. I just wanted a nap, needed a nap, ached for a hot throbbing nap. I couldn’t pretend to be that surprised by the proposition, or ignorant of my part in engendering it. About six months after our daughter was born, my husband calmly set the idea on the table, like a decorative gun.
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