A WOMAN shouldn’t do those kinds of things, especially with her husband. As some women say to me, after five or six years, it’s time to curtail sex. They want it all the time, of course. But you have to make them earn it. I pay no attention to that advice. Nor do I join in conversations about how difficult my man is, because I think that’s dirty. Me Dermot is not a difficult man at all, at all. Doesn’t he have the patience of a saint and meself sometimes a frigging witch altogether. He is a distraction, ogling me all the time and embarrassing me. How can a woman keep a proper house with four kids, two dogs, two nannies usually, a cook, and her man devouring her with his eyes all the time. And meself having to exercise, and go downtown for my voice lessons with Madam, and now attend sessions with the Revered Teacher. ’Tis not fitting to be gobbled up like he gobbles me. I have work to do, you ravening creature, give over.
I never say it, of course. It would break his heart, poor dear man. Besides, if he didn’t look at me that way, wouldn’t I be afraid that he had found someone else to devour with his soft blue eyes? And doesn’t it feel good when someone who by now should be bored with you still wants you, even if it’s all the time. What would have happened to me if he hadn’t tried to chat me up in O’Neil’s that cold autumn night? I’d be a lonely, frustrated, nasty woman—which I might be anyway, but at least one who is loved and knows how to love in return—just as the Holy Father, poor dear man, said in that letter of his. That’s where God is.
Speaking of Yourself, thank You for me Dermot and me kids and me friends, and protect us from the evil that lurks all around, especially over across the street.