Chapter 1

Susan

What do you do (I speak generally, here) when your partner in life, the person you've loved for thirty-five years (or however long it is) loses interest in sex ... and you don't? I don't mean, you fall out of love, or begin to hate the person, or even that they don't want any intimacy. Let's get down to specifics, here. We'd been married over thirty years. I still thought Susan was possibly (if not definitely) the most beautiful person I knew. She was still in good shape; a bit of sag, stretch marks from two pregnancies, a few grey hairs, nice legs, lovely eyes. It was her eyes I noticed first when we met. No, seriously. I mean, she was so covered up with shapeless ... stuff, you could hardly have told that she had a figure at all, but those eyes, sapphire blue, but warm, not cold and hard like a jewel. Then, I noticed her face – oval; what they call a 'generous' mouth, some laughter-lines, neat ears, wavy auburn hair. It was only when I picked her up for our first date that I realised she was, as the saying is, 'built like a brick shithouse'. I've never understood how that expression came about, but, wow, what a bod.

Anyway, we dated for a few months before we got hitched, and got started on owning our own house before starting a family. Two lovely daughters, Tamara and Phoebe, the image of their mother. They say daughters are God's judgement on their fathers for being men, that fathers go through trauma expecting their daughters to meet someone ... like you were at that age. Well, I can't say I didn't worry, but, though I had no doubt of the passionate nature of my offspring, they were at least careful, of themselves and who they dated. They found two decent, hard-working men and married, in due course making us grandparents, very, very happy and proud grandparents. I anticipated a long, happy and satisfying retirement.

It took me some time to realise Susan had lost interest in sex. She'd had various problems around 'the Change' and I didn't press her, but when one day I realised we hadn't made love for months – that I couldn't remember the last time we'd had intercourse – that I'd been masturbating regularly (and with less than great satisfaction) I felt I had to tackle the issue. I wasn't ready for celibacy ... not at all, no way.

We went for a walk through the park one evening. There were few enough people around I could broach the ... sensitive ... issue. I was absolutely horrified when she broke down completely and wept as if the world was ending ... We found a bench by one of the ponds. It took some time before she calmed down.

"Hush sweetheart. You know I love you, okay?" That was not the right thing to say; it just started her crying again. However, eventually,

"I'm sorry, Bill ... I ought to have said something before, but ... It hurts too much, Bill. I can't take you inside me ... you know I started using lubricants when we made love, right? Well, even with those, it hurt too much. The doctor was no help..."

"Okay, sweetheart, it's okay. We can still cuddle and stuff, right?"

"Bill, intercourse hurts physically. Not being able to ... proceed ... when you touch me ... it hurts me here," she pressed her hand against her chest. I held her close as she sobbed.

We walked, hand in hand, along the path, listening to the wind in the trees. I think that is one of the loveliest, most calming and serene sounds in the world.

Two days later, I was spending the day at church with some friends. There was food and a couple of longish committee meetings, a drink or two. I managed to forget what Susan had said, for an hour or so, anyway.

I arrived home and breezed into the kitchen. "I'm home!" Have you ever walked into a house and just known there's no-one there? The house felt empty. The sort of feeling that says that it's not just that there's no-one there, but ... something more.

I looked in the lobby, the sitting-room ... went upstairs, the master bedroom and guest-room, the bathroom. Puzzled, I checked the garage (though why I thought she might be there, I don't know). Returning to the kitchen, I eventually noticed a card propped against a tea-pot on the middle of the table.

I slumped at the table, rested my head on my arms, and wept.

They say there is no time in eternity; not that it lasts for ever, but there's no time at all – that time has no meaning. So, perhaps it was an eternity that I wept; I have no idea how long it was. But someone came in, a warm arm wrapped around my shoulder.

"Come on, Dad. I know it's a shock. If she'd told you what she intended,, you'd have talked her out of it, I know. She knew it, that's why she did it this way. I've brought something for your supper, but you can come home with me if you like." It was Tamara, the older of our two daughters.

I shook my head. This was home and this was my only link with Susan. I later found she'd removed nearly everything thing that was specifically hers – nothing that was 'ours', but she'd left a few photos – one of her just after we married, one of us with a cup for winning a dinghy race, several with the girls at various ages.

Tamara got me to sit in the front room; she put on a CD of 'Orfeo and Euridice' – didn't she know what that would do to me? 'What is life without Euridice'? What was life without Susan? She put a generous glass of neat single-malt in my hand. One sip told me it was some of my cask-strength Glen Grant – fifty six percent alcohol. I never, but never, drank that much Glen Grant in one sitting, but that is what I did that evening. Tammy got me to eat, steered me upstairs and got me undressed, washed and toileted like some poor old thing; tucked me in and sat holding my hand until I faded out.