“I’m sleeping, Jason,” she mumbled, turning over.
Normally, she would engage in these moments. I didn’t want to push it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Maybe she was still upset about the concert.
The next morning, I thought about trying again, but James crawled into bed before seven, wedging himself between us. “Can I watch cartoons in here?”
“Sure, buddy,” I said.
Natalie stirred, smiling as she ran a hand through his messy hair. “Hi, honey. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“All right, I’ll make you breakfast.”
She barely acknowledged me.
Twenty minutes later, the scent of bacon and maple syrup filled the house. I found Bebe already perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter. Natalie fixed three plates—one for each of the kids and me. Nothing for herself except coffee. She poured me a cup and slid a plate of pancakes, bacon, and fruit toward me.
“How about we go Christmas shopping today?” she asked.
The kids cheered.
“Sounds good,” I said, even though all I really wanted was to lounge on the couch and drown out the world with ESPN. But I wasn’t about to complain. I wasn’t sure where I stood with her right now.
We spent the day at Fashion Island picking out gifts, stopping for pastries and hot chocolate. It turned out to be a good family day.
When we got home, Natalie put on Christmas music and started making dinner. She really was the perfect wife. She did all the things I ever wanted with someone. But, I felt like something was missing lately. I should to try to be with her again tonight. We needed to connect.
I put the kids to bed, then came back downstairs. Natalie was curled up on the couch under a throw blanket, half-watching a Hallmark movie. When I sat down beside her, she glanced at melike she wasn’t sure whether to close her eyes and pretend to be asleep or let me make a move.
“Want to go up to bed?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly.
I leaned in, pressing my lips to hers. She kissed me back, but something felt off. I pulled my shirt over my head, then tugged hers off. Her breath rose and fell steadily. I traced my fingers along her bare skin, slipping her pants down, my hand easing into her panties to see if she was ready.
She wasn’t.
I kissed her again, deepening it, trying to bring her into it. Eventually, I felt her shift, her body responding enough for me to continue. I guided her hand to me, needing her to help me along. She did, yet I still felt strangely disconnected.
This is my wife.
Why does it feel so…mechanical?
She pulled my pants down, and I pushed myself inside her. We moved together the way we had a hundred times before, muscle memory taking over. I focused on finishing, on making it work, and on making us work, but I wasn’t sure if she would get there, too. Eventually I let go and released.
Afterward, I kissed her forehead. A habit. A reflex.
She sat up, pulled the blanket back around her, and walked upstairs with the fabric still draped over her shoulders.
“I’m going up to bed,” she said as she walked away.
“Okay,” I said, staying put. “I’ll be up soon.”
She went upstairs without looking back.
I sat there for a while, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water, but what I really needed was something to take the edge off. Something to make me feel like everything was good and right in my life.
I found an old pack of joints in my office.
