Woman on top, I decided after deliberating for a moment.
Lying next to Bryan, both of us naked except for the one wearing the itchy bra, I realized to accomplish this somewhat gracefully, I would have to turn in the other direction in the bed and swing my leg over his chest. The turning went fine. The swinging, not so good.
“Shit, Jess,” Bryan said, sitting up after I kicked him in the nose.
“Is it bleeding?” I grabbed the box of Kleenex and held one up to his face.
“I don’t need that,” he said, waving it away. “No. It’s not bleeding. It’s fine.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I said, trying to inject a little humor.
“Let’s just try and pick up where we left off.”
Sweet talk, that wasn’t, but I was determined to have a memorable roll in the hay. We started kissing again; this time I stayed put and didn’t try anything fancy that required rolling all over the bed. Bryan stroked my hair, which I always loved, and ran a row of kisses down my neck to my shoulders, making me shiver.
It was good, I told myself. We were back in the saddle again. But when Bryan reached down and fingered me, he stopped and sat up.
“What are you doing?” I asked, leaving my legs open for him to play.
“I think we need some lube. You’re kind of dry.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked indignantly. I reached down and touched myself and realized he was right. I was the Sahara Desert.
“I don’t understand,” I sputtered. “I was soaked a minute ago.”
“Don’t women dry up after menopause?” Bryan said, tilting his head to one side in a way I took as mocking.
“I’m in perimenopause, for your information, and it’s probably just because we haven’t had sex in a while.” I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but the menopause thing really pissed me off.
The room fell silent.
“I’m tired anyway,” Bryan said quietly, pulling on pajama pants he’d left on the floor that morning.
I took the bra off in the bathroom, wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.
So much for lingerie.
Then I looked for calamine lotion to put on the rash that had formed. The left side was worse, a raggedy circle of hives around the space over my heart.
12
Despite the thwarted sex, we’d gamely continued to work hard on our marriage that winter. Wednesday night was date night, going out to horror movies (his choice) or rom-coms (mine) then out to try a new restaurant. We’d had chunks of chicken tossed on our plates at a Japanese place, dunked cubes of bread into cheese at a fondue eatery, enjoyed spicy Indian food until the gas hit us hours later.
We got up and made waffles together Saturday mornings with this great double waffle maker I got on Amazon. Bry wore his Rocky robe while he warmed his cold hands on a coffee mug.
I ordered him one of those lights that were supposed to mimic the sun to help people with seasonal depression. He said it gave him headaches, so I put it next to the peace lily, which thrived under its warm glow.
We played Monopoly and Clue. Sometimes Ian joined in, even though he said he was too old for board games.
I couldn’t sleep many nights when Bryan went to sleep with the heated blanket on its highest setting. Instead, I got up and sat at the kitchen table with a mug of orange spice tea. I needed a clear mind to think about what I could and would do.
When the kids were middle-school age, they’d come home with various middle-school problems: a friend who snubbed them, a moody teacher, failing to score the game point in gym volleyball.
I tried hard not to solve the kids’ problems for them.
“So, what’s your plan?” I’d asked instead. “You always have a plan.”
I’d run out of plans to make my marriage to Bryan work.
“Maybe it would help to get a new job and work less hours. I can look for one,” Bryan said at last.
We’d been through all that before. I’d emailed Bry job openings, critiqued his résumé, helped write cover letters, quizzed him on common interview questions, picked out a nice dress shirt and tie. But he’d never gotten around to applying for other jobs.
“You don’t want to change jobs,” I said in the kitchen as he cooked.
“No, I don’t, but I’ll try to find something else,” he sighed. “I don’t know where I’d find one. At my age I can’t exactly start over.”
“Your chicken is burning,” I said, pulling away.
“Jess, what do you want me to say?”
I counted the seconds clicking by on the kitchen clock. Click. Click. Click.
“I don’t think there’s anything to say.” I started to cry.
“So that’s it? Just like that, we’re done?” His voice had an angry edge like the time I’d tried to talk to him about antidepressants.
I cried harder.
Bryan came to me, putting his arms around me and shushing me.
“You think I should move out, then?” His voice was back under control.
“Where would you go?” I pulled away to look at his face.
“South, to be with Cassie and Ben,” he said with the conviction of someone knowing, at last, where they belong.
13
Getting divorced the second time took more than returning postage-paid paperwork.
I told Bryan I would find a lawyer and get the papers drafted. I’d gotten the names of four attorneys online. Two of them never called me back for the free consultation. One told me over the phone it would take six months and a $2,500 retainer to finalize the divorce. The fourth gave me an appointment to talk at her office. I arrived to find a handwritten sign on the door of the lawyer’s office: Please don’t let the cats out.
I stood for a moment before going in, careful not to let any cats escape through the glass door
