W hen the groom wakes I am standing over him, wearing my shoes and coat. I have already thrown up into the toilet and brushed my teeth. His naked chest and mussed hair makes me feel extra clothed.
“We made a mistake,” I say. “It’s not pretty but it’s true.”
He leaves the room and I follow. In the kitchenette he pours two glasses of dirt-colored liquid. He hands me one then sits on the opposite couch, takes a large sip. “Define mistake,” he says.
I’ve already had the conversation five times in my head and am frustrated in advance of him not understanding. “As in, something we shouldn’t have done.”
“Why should we not have done it?” His words are exaggerated, patient. He speaks to a frustrating but well-intentioned child.
“I think you’d agree we’ve been drifting apart for a long time. We haven’t had sex in over a year.”
“Two nights ago,” he says, and I say, “Before that.”
“You told me you weren’t a sexual person.”
During a previous argument, I lied and said I wasn’t sexual to avoid the truth that would create a one-way gate. But now I must see whether he is a front for something more compelling or if he is plaster that rejects the drill, and underneath is more exterior, and underneath more exterior.
I take a large sip. “I am a sexual person,” I say.
“No.” He is confused. “You’re not. Didn’t therapy help you understand that you are not a sexual person because of your injury?”
“Which injury?” I say.
His voice contains barely managed frustration. “Which? Injury?”
“It’s fair to say I have issues, but it’s also fair to say that you do, too.”
He straightens. “I think we can both agree that I am a sexual person.”
This brag stings, but I must permit micro-cruelties and remain perfect in this lightning field because I dragged the flawed measure of our relationship out on the day after our wedding.
“It’s no one’s fault,” I say. “It’s about the heat we conduct when we’re together. Or lack thereof.”
“Or lack thereof?”
“I think so,” I say. “Yes.”
He switches his crossed leg from left to right. “Scoreboard,” he says. “One, you don’t initiate physical intercourse with me. Two, you don’t wear suggestive clothing. You don’t even like to watch porn.” He notices the effect this accusation has on me and changes tack. “But let’s take your word that you are a sexual person. This is good news. We can add this essential part into our relationship. And there goes your lack thereof.” He smiles, triumph.
“There’s still a lack thereof,” I say.
“Tell me more.” The request sounds so tender I think I will be able to explain in a way he will understand.
“The truth is, I am a sexual person. I’m just not sexually attracted to you.”
He taps his fingers against the glass, which contains either two sips or one strong one, wipes the condensation against his thigh. “Why are you bringing this up the day after we’re married?”
“I’ve been on mute,” I say.
He has tolerated this discussion as long as he plans to. “Is this about your client?” He places a stink on the word.
“This is not about my client,” I say, redeeming the word.
His lip curls around a cruel remark. “I think you should take a fucking walk.” The room bristles then settles. It is as if every object—the melancholic lamps, the belittling mini-soaps, the rigid carpet—has chosen his side.
“A walk might be a good idea. Clear my head.”
In the bedroom I chuck my belongings into my suitcase. Eyeglasses, pajamas. I can’t think of anything I would mind never seeing again. Make it appear spur-of-the-moment, I remind myself. Cheer bubbles in me when I think of sleeping alone, which pinks my ears with shame. I return to the room. If he finds a discrepancy between the idea of a walk and the packed suitcase, he doesn’t mention it. Cheer and shame.
“You’re really doing this.” He never had to work hard to be admitted into good schools, teams, groups, associations. I am the only bad thing that’s ever happened to him.
“I love you.” His tone contains the punctured tenderness that could on any other morning strip my resolve. “I married you.” He places his head in his hands, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t. Stay. I’ve been good to you.”
“You have, kind of.” I leave. Between the hotel room door and the elevator is the longest hallway in the world.