Lizzy

The wind howls, then quiets to a gray whisper. Lizzy pauses in front of the bedroom door holding a bottle of wine and two goblets. Her casual nightshirt shows off her long legs. If this marriage is going to survive, they need to reconnect.

She opens the door and stands at the foot of the bed. At fifty-two, Greg could still pass for thirty-five. He has a full head of dirty blond hair, a boyish grin, and healthy skin—no age spots, no circles under his brown eyes.

“Thought you might want some wine,” she says.

“What kind?” He sits up a little.

“Chardonnay.”

“I guess.”

She senses his hesitation and begins to pour.

“That’s enough.” He holds out his hand.

There’s still plenty of time. He’s always been a slow starter, although she’d thought that would change after he confessed.

“What are you watching?” She slides under the covers, not too close, but close enough so that he can easily touch her.

“Antiques Roadshow.”A woven tapestry, an elaborate depiction of an old church, is displayed.

“How much do you think that’s worth?” she asks.

“Don’t know.” Greg yawns loudly, a signal that he is not in the mood.

The small rejections build on one another. But she’s not about to give up. After a few more sips of wine, she inches closer.

“Want to just talk awhile?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Finally, he turns off the TV. She reaches for the cord on the closed shade behind her. A little moonlight would be nice.

“Leave it,” he tells her.

She does, although she’d like to look into his eyes, to see if he really does want her.

He finishes his wine. “Maybe I’ll have some more.”

Her vision has adjusted enough to see the bottle. She refills both of their glasses, and they drink in silence. If she’s too assertive, he’s only going to feel pressured and withdraw. Eventually, he places his glass on the floor, then turns to her and runs his fingers, stiff and tentative, along her neck.

He holds her face, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips. Her shoulders relax as he grows more forceful and moves a hand down her nightshirt.

“That feels nice,” she tells him.

“Why don’t you take it off?”

She pulls the shirt over her head, glad to be rid of it.

He cups her breast, and she gently slips her hand below his waist.

He sheds his flannel pajama top. They hold each other. She’s missed his skin touching hers, but after a few seconds, she senses his loss of urgency. She kisses his neck and begins to slide down. His thighs tense and he stops her.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs.

“It’s all right,” she says, and moves back up.

He grimaces and squirms as he shifts her head from his shoulder. “A cramp in my arm,” he tells her, then sits and gropes for his pajama shirt.

After he puts it back on, he lies on his side of the bed.

Her chest aches. “Do the guys in your group talk about how they deal with sex . . . after? I was thinking if it’s an addiction, like alcohol, people have to talk about how they’re going to deal with it when they’re sober. You know?”

He responds by tapping the mattress with his hand.

She waits, trying to be patient. He clears his throat, as if that will help to dislodge the words that seem stuck.

“I thought,” she begins, “when you stopped watching, you’d want me again.”

“It’s not that.” His voice is tight.

She wishes she could do the wise thing, say good night and bring this up another day when he’s not so defensive and vulnerable, and she’s not on that boundary where rejection begins to harden.

“Then what?” she asks.

“It’s . . .” He’s stuck again.

“Do you want me?”

“Lizzy.” He slaps the mattress. “I’ve told you I do.”

There, it’s out. What she was begging for— yet it’s not enough. “It doesn’t feel like it when it’s so hard for you to say it.” She sits up and gathers her long, curly hair. She’d worn it down for him. “You told me when you stopped watching, things would change. And they haven’t.” The words are hot; anger slips out.

“Christ, Lizzy, we go over the same shit. Things have changed. I’m going to my groups and seeing a therapist. It’s not going to happen overnight.”

She isn’t looking at his face, but she imagines he is sneering. “So how long will it be?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“What can you answer?” Her voice is louder than she intended.

“This is going nowhere.” He sits up.

She can tell he’s getting ready to leave, to sleep in the guest room.

“I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just hard sometimes knowing you’d rather be looking at young women on the computer than making love to me.”

He flips back the covers. “Why don’t you tell me what exactly it is you want me to say?”

“That you love me. That you want me and not them. That you think I’m pretty.” She detests that she’s sinking this low.

“I do tell you those things.”

“Only when you want me to shut up.”

He swings his legs off the bed. “I can’t do this anymore to night. I have to get up early.”

She wants to extend an olive branch, to tell him she’s willing to work through this, that she loves him. But she doesn’t.

He walks to the door.

“Just tell me you aren’t watching porn,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I’m not changing fast enough for you.”

The door slams behind him.

Every cell in her body feels as if it’s about to burst. She wants to follow him, to keep fighting until they reach some sort of resolution. But of course she knows they won’t.

She curls under the eiderdown. The room smells like stale wine. The beginnings of a migraine nag at her temple. He’ll be asleep in ten minutes, relieved to be away from her. She listens to the wind growl, hating him, hating herself more.