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 void around me. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to accept. 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…
