"What the hell doyou mean John ?" Pleading, desperate, frustrated but strangely absentof any hint of anger or surprise. " I can't, I can't give you what youwant I'm.......I'm.....God Wendy, I just can't". "You can't what John?say it, tell me, tell me what you can't do to me, what you can't giveme, I want to hear you say it, I want to...I need to hear the words"." Please Wendy please please don't make me say it, I can't Wendy, Ican't" I hear my pitiful words in my own head and my self loathingescalates to another level, what sort of husband, what sort of man amI. The answer comes immediately. I'm not. I'm neither. What sort ofhusband tortures his wife with his own shame, his own lies, his ownself delusions to avoid facing up to the truth? What sort of manpromises a woman the physical intimacy, the corporeal closeness, thetangible representation of the love, desire and need for one anotherknowing all the while he is incapable of doing so, worse, knowing thathe does really not want. ” You laugh. “I’m sooo hungry!” We talk for a while, inching along the highway at a snail’s pace, and I worry a little that it might get awkward if we run out of things to say. But when the conversation lulls, and I put the car in park yet again, you move towards me and rest your head on my shoulder like you used to do, and it feels right. So I run my hand up your knee, just like I wanted, resting it on your thigh, and you curl into me and wrap your arms around mine, snuggling into my shoulder comfortably. We creep along like this for a long time, not really speaking but just silently enjoying each other’s touch. My fingers dance along your stocking and you arch your back very slightly, as though showing me approval. Your own fingers are gently tracing circles on my bicep, telling me without words that you like how I feel. I put the car in park again when we reach another impasse, and I settle back into my seat and try not to close my eyes. The energy is palpable. Relaxed, my hand.
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