The Last Time I Had Sex With My Wife

 

For anything new to begin, something must first end.

Coldness reflected off the gray paint in the bedroom.

An empty room, except for a lonely bed.

An empty bed occupied by myself and my thoughts.

Wrapped in white bedding, I hid my head from the surrounding void. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to accept it. I didn’t want the life I now lived.

Clouded sunlight from the window above failed to warm the blanket. The open window letting in a Michigan January made sure of that.

Suddenly lost in a very real reality I didn’t know what to do. Or I did and I didn’t want to do it.

A groan from the front door downstairs as it opened. I didn’t lock it the previous night. If someone wanted to rob me they’d find an empty home. If someone wanted to murder me they’d do me a favor. But I knew the guest to be neither thief nor executioner.

It was my wife. And the steps creaked under her feet as she approached the bedroom.

Not The Life We Imagined

On paper, we were perfect for each other.

We met in film school and spent years walking the streets of Savannah as we grew closer. She shared her love of music. I introduced her to Seinfeld. There are times when, a decade later, I’ll hear her snort-laugh during a scene.

We moved to Michigan together and, almost five years in, I popped the question.

Yes, on paper we checked off every box, but life happens, and life doesn’t care how many boxes are checked.

She might have been the one now destined to wear the scarlet letter, but much of the responsibility for our failure lays at my feet. A stranger in the Great Lakes State, I’d transplanted her for work and I know I didn’t offer the kind of nourishment she, a Georgia Peach, needed. A thousand miles from friends and family, she did her best. It was I who should have done better.

I thought over it all as I lay there in bed. The cold, empty bed I once shared with her. What could I have done differently? Would it, in the end, have even mattered?

The bedroom door opened and closed. I knew the cadence to her footsteps. The smell of her skin fresh out of the shower. The rustle of denim between her thighs. If someone had come to do me in, the assassin would wear a familiar face.

She slid under the bedding. Eyes, tired from moving, looked into mine. She’d been crying. The skin always puffed around her eyes when she did. I wonder if she knew I had been crying as well.

A Home Into A House

Six weeks earlier she moved out of the house and back to Georgia to be with those family and friends she left behind. At the time we told everyone she went just to visit, although we knew that wouldn’t be the case. As the weeks dragged on others caught on as well. They stopped asking where my wife had gone. It created a flock of onlookers, gazing up at us as we stood on the edge of divorce, waiting for us to jump.

That moment came. It was spoken over the phone. Paperwork was started. Government-mandated waiting periods began. And she returned for her things, parents in tow.

We made arrangements for her and her family to move what belonged to her while I left during the day. My mom asked if I wanted her to stay, to make sure they took only what belonged to them. I didn’t think that to be a good idea. I feared returning to the home only to find them agreeing to pistols at dawn.

The morning of I made coffee prior to leaving for the day. I offered a cup to the dad. He thanked me but raised his already purchased cup. I offered a cup to the mom. She poured it out. I decided it best for me to leave.

After two days I returned to the evening. They were just leaving. Dad shook my hand and gave me a knowing nod. He was in his own second marriage. Mom slid into the Uhaul and slammed the door. She was in her second as well.

My still-wife-by-paperwork said they’d leave the hotel early in the morning. I wanted to hug her. To say goodbye. I knew I’d see her again when it came to going in front of the judge, but I knew this truly marked the end of our relationship. The final surgical cut necessary to save the two of us by the only means necessary: Separation.

I wondered if hugging her would be appropriate. Based on the glare from the mom, I thought better of it. So I went inside. I felt empty. Almost as empty as the interior.

Most of the furniture had been hers. A television slouched against a far wall looked over by photographs. They didn’t want to take the memories with them, so they were left behind. Windows of happiness into a life that no longer existed.

There’s something strange about an empty house. When moving in it’s full of opportunity and potential. When moving out it’s void of life. The ghosts of dreams and memories all that remains.

I went upstairs. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to sleep and hope slumber will fill the growing space in my chest.

The Final Time

She took my hand in hers. I placed a palm to her cheek. We were both empty, an emptiness caused by one another. There was love still there but it couldn’t be salvaged.

When we kissed it filled me with life, but life quickly left. It would be the last time we’d sleep together. Neither of us closed our eyes. We wanted to see it. Remember it. Drink it in.

The white sheets hid the cold sun. Our own cloudy day. Arms wrapped around one another. Breath warmed our skin. Fingers traced over backs and arms and legs, mapping out bodies in the atlas of our minds.

I felt her heartbeat through my chest as it told my own heart goodbye. It responded in kind. Nails dug into mattress and skin. Tongues licked at perspiration. Lips pressed to necks and thighs and stomachs. Tears slid from eyes.

We made love one final time. It had been a long time since we did anything of the sort. It was a final goodbye. A goodbye to our relationship. A goodbye to our partnership. A goodbye to our plans and our future.

She slipped out of the bed as quickly and as quietly as she came, leaving me with the scent of her skin after a shower and the sound of denim between her thighs.

I didn’t wash the sheets for a long time. I didn’t want to lose that smell. I wasn’t ready for that.

I wasn’t ready for a long time.

It’s all a memory now. A memory from a lifetime ago. In many ways a different lifetime. I’ve moved on. So has she. Ultimately we’re better for the time we shared together and yet we’re better apart than we would have been together.

I don’t know if she shares the same memory. The last time we made love. It wouldn’t bother me if she didn’t.

I’m glad for our time together. For the ending we allowed ourselves. But I’m also glad for where I am today and the future relationships I will have.

For anything new to begin, there must first be an end.

And that is how we came to an end.

Source : Readitworld