I sat my husband down and told him I don’t enjoy sex with him anymore.
I said it plainly. I’d rehearsed it in the shower for a week.
I said, “It feels like a chore.”
He didn’t argue.
He nodded slowly, the way he does when someone reads him a budget.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
That was it.
I expected a fight. I expected him to slam a door.
He opened his laptop.
I thought, he’s ignoring me. Again.
The next morning my phone buzzed at 7:12am.
A calendar invite.
“Thursday, 9:00pm. Duration: 1 hour. Location: Bedroom.”
Under description, he’d written:
“Per your feedback.”
I stared at it for a full minute.
I texted him: “Is this a joke?”
He replied: “No. You said it feels like a chore. I’m taking it seriously.”
Taking it seriously.
He’d added a reminder 24 hours before.
Then a second one, two hours before.
On Thursday at 8:58pm, he stood in the doorway with his phone in his hand.
“I’m on time,” he said.
I laughed, and then I stopped, because he wasn’t laughing.
He truly believed he’d solved it.