We were inseparable when we got married, positively joined at the hip. We did everything togetherfalling asleep in a cuddle, watching TV in bed, brisk Sunday strolls through the park, giggling at the daftest things. Affection just happenedno big schedule, mostly spur of the moment. I felt adored, wanted, chosen.
As the years rolled on, we stayed close, but in a different sort of way. The long, lingering kisses vanished, replaced by quick pecks; the tender strokes gave way to the odd friendly pat. Early nights became our normtucked up in bed by half nine, absolutely knackered, and hed simply turn away to his side. At first, Id shuffle closer, sneak my hand onto his or reach for his shoulder, hoping for a squeeze. Hed mutter that he was tired, maybe tomorrow, not now. I got it, honestly.
Time passed and nothing much changed. We still had our dinner together, chatted about our days, shared the same bedbut nothing ever happened. Eventually, I just lay there still, crossing my fingers hed make the first move. He never did. It stung a bit at first, then I started feeling slightly embarrassed about even wanting more. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was making a fuss.
Our routine was quaint but entirely neutral. Breakfast together, coffee together, attending family dos with matching polite smiles. Hed tell me his tales, Id share my gossip, then wed fall asleep back to back like a pair of sardines. I began changing in front of him quickly, not fussing with my hair, my nice pyjamas gathering dust. My body stopped feeling like something anyone would find remotely interesting.
I tried bringing it up, more than once. I asked if he fancied me at all anymore. He said no, it wasnt that; he just didnt feel like it these days. It was only natural with the years, he explained, because love was about companionship and mutual respect. I nodded, though deep down there was a hollow, nameless ache I was too guilty to mention.
Bit by bit, I called it normal. Loads of couples live like this, I told myself. No rows, so what more could I want? I got used to being hugged only in public, never touched when we were alone. I stopped waiting. Stopped wanting. Stamped out that part of myself so I wouldnt feel rejected any more.
Years ticked by; we remained very close. Always together, neat and tidy, never raising eyebrows. Nobody guessed wed not had real intimacy for over fifteen years. Even I forgot what it was to feel like a woman beside someone. Id become a habit, a comfort, the person always therenot a desire.
On the day he announced that he was leaving for someone else, I didnt quite process it. He confessed he felt alive, wanted, connected with her. I didnt shout. Didnt argue. He simply told me. And just then, I realised he wasnt numbhe just didnt feel those things with me.
Looking back, it wasnt the leaving that hurt the most. It was the slow, patient way Id learnt to live beside a man whod stopped seeing me as a womanand convinced me that was all perfectly ordinary.
