Chapter 1

Where the hell had the years gone? As I glanced at my wife, lying on her side ... thankfully on her side so her snoring had stopped, I wondered for the millionth time. The swell of Sandy’s shapely hip hinted at what once had been a tiny waist. But the years ... They had taken their toll. No, that was a lie. While she chose to let herself go, I was in better condition now than in decades. Down to my old Army weight and more muscular.

No, what had happened wasn’t because of the ravages of time. At this point, why were we even still married? There was no longer anything in common between us. The sexy, petite, raven black-haired, dark-eyed woman I had bound and blindfolded with elegant scarves when we were younger had disappeared. Replaced by the ever grumpy mother to our children. And she was a great mother. The girls had become young adults, mostly because of her. Years of war—so many deployments. The years I missed. Yet Sandy was always there for them.

But they were grown now. And Sandy found herself in a dead-end job she hated. Or more truthfully, enjoyed complaining about, but still stayed. As much as she griped, she made only tentative, half-hearted motions to find another job. Nor did she complain about our marriage. Frankly, neither did I. So we also stayed. The shining example of a dead bedroom marriage. No spark. None at all, anymore.

As I rolled onto my back to stare at the ceiling, I let a lengthy exhale calm me. Months ago, I began to try, recommending we go away. Spend some time together. See if we could rekindle ... or even find that spark. She agreed ... sorta. At least, she hadn’t said no.

And here we were. When the buzzer sounded, I lurched from the mattress, once more cursing her loud alarm. She only murmured as I stepped into the bathroom to get ready for the trip. That sexy little getaway to Sandals ... Yeh, somehow it became a “let’s go visit my family with the kids” trip.

And she wondered why, after retiring, I poured my energy into writing. Pure fucking escapism, that’s why. My stories were the only way to escape all this. And now, yippee, another family fucking vacation. Her family. I mean, they were pleasant and all, but busy and vacuous. At least we agreed I could hang out and write after the obligatory initial visit to one of her sister’s homes.

Why did I stay married? Everyone asked whenever I confessed my life. Inertia? Comfort? Sandy was an excellent mother. And she could be nice, when she wanted. In some ways, I still loved her, that’s why. Simple, really. And I definitely wished her no harm. Divorcing would hurt her; she didn’t deserve that. After everything she had sacrificed for the kids, and me. My pension was literally all she had.

But I simply wasn’t attracted to her anymore. The days of her sparkling eyes gleaming when she managed to take me deep into her throat. Or when I would drive her insane by taunting her with my tongue. Those days had ended decades ago.

Inertia? Fuck inertia. With a growl, I splashed chilly water onto my grizzled face as Sandy wobbled in, the flab of her belly hanging over her tight nylon panties. Boring. Unlike the lace ones she used to wear for me. An ache fluttered in me at the dusty memory. As she sidled past, she scratched her ribs; her sagging breasts flopped.

“Good morning,” I said, before wiping the towel over my face.

As she shuffled into the little toilet alcove to sit with a loud grunt and pee, she said nothing. With a sigh, I stepped out to dress. Was it me? Had I given up?

Later, after breakfast, I held in my comments while watching Sandy pack the usual snacks. Lightly salted nuts for me and chips, candy, and basically crap for her. No, it wasn’t me. Sandy was the one who’d given up. On herself. And perhaps on us. After another long exhale, I opened my latest story. While sipping the elixir of life that was coffee, I reviewed the beginning.

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