Page 68 of Woman on the Verge

She laughed. “Would you date Kyle if you were to meet him today?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said, though the more honest answer was no. Kyle wasn’t interesting to me anymore. His ambition had been attractive when we were younger, when we were college kids with no money and big dreams. Now, though, he was someone who worked hard and was well paid. We had a good life by anyone’s standards, and I wanted, desperately, for that to be enough. But it just wasn’t.

“Really?”

“I don’t know if I’d date any man again,” I said.

“Switching teams?”

“I wish I could. I just can’t be attracted to vagina.”

“Are you attracted to penis?”

I gagged. “Good point.”

“Nic, I really just think you’re super stressed right now,” she said. “It’s a phase.”

Later that day, I asked Kyle the question Jill had asked me:

“If you met me today, would you want to date me?”

I hoped the question would foster a larger conversation about the very foundation and purpose of our marriage. I fantasized about us being an evolved couple who could have these Big Talks and raw confessions and maybe agree to “consciously uncouple” if that was best for our individual paths, namaste.

“If I met you today?” he said. “Sure.”

Sure.As if I’d just asked him if he could pick up dishwasher detergent pods at the store.

I waited for him to ask the same question of me, but he didn’t. Because he’s just not that curious. He doesn’t like to pick at things. He doesn’t crave the kind of intimacy that I do, an intimacy that involvesknowing the deepest, darkest parts of each other. I didn’t crave that intimacy until I became a mother, until I became aware of the deep, dark parts of myself that I needed to have witnessed and pardoned. This is my problem with marriage: it’s predicated on two people never changing. I had the very best intentions, but I’ve failed. I’ve changed.

I curl up on the couch, cover my legs with Grace’s pink unicorn blanket. I read and reread Elijah’s texts. I realize any psychologist worth her salt would make note of how I’ve manifested—the latest trendy word—this lovely Elijah distraction right when my life is falling apart. I could have turned to booze or prescription pills for a pleasant release from reality, but no, that would be too conventional. So instead, I’ve become dependent on the saga of Katrina and Elijah. I like to think the fact that I have insight into what I’m doing means I’m not crazy.

Hey you

He texts back immediately:

Omg, way to leave a guy hanging. I really thought you were pissed

Maybe I was. But I’ve forgiven you

Him: I seriously can’t stop thinking about you

I am burdened with this same problem

Him: You can’t stop thinking about you?

Ha ha

Him: I don’t know if I can accept not seeing you again

I’m not sure if I can accept it either

Him: Remind me again why we can’t just keep doing what we’re doing?

You have no idea,I want to say.

So many reasons,I want to say.

Maybe we can . . .

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