I'm Fine and Neither Are You(39)

My hair fell around our heads, blocking out the pile of clothing next to the bed and the watchful eyes of Stevie’s stuffed koala, which she had discarded on our dresser. There was only me and Sanjay, whose arms were soft yet taut beneath my fingers and whose skin smelled like soap, which had always turned me on. Maybe this list idea wasn’t so ill conceived, after all.

“What did I do to deserve this?” he murmured.

Was this a trick question? The answer was nothing. It was also that he had agreed to sign on to the fix-our-marriage project. “Less talking,” I whispered.

“Okay,” he said.

“Still talking.”

“Sorry.”

“Shhh.” I kissed him again. Then I pushed my hips into his and took his hands and placed them on my breasts. He lingered there, almost like he was reacquainting himself with my body (which I suppose he was). Then he tugged my shirt over my head. Happily, I was no longer thinking about what was jiggling or whether my underwear would rip more if I leaned in the wrong direction. This wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I was on my way to liking it.

I realized Sanjay’s eyes were on my face. He was looking at my forehead, probably wondering if the faint lines between my eyebrows indicated I was only going through the motions. His gaze drifted to my lips. Was my pursing a pucker—or evidence I was ready to get this over with?

A little of both. I wondered if he could tell.

Then he looked into my eyes, and somehow that made me feel as naked as I ever had. I didn’t want him to read me; I didn’t want to connect on a deeper level. Because one minute I’d be thinking about how I loved my husband, and the next, I’d be crying over my dead friend. No, what I wanted—what I needed —was surface-level intimacy. Hormones. Pheromones. Good old shut-eyed, emotion-free lust.

I rolled off of him.

“What is it?” he said, still lying beside me. He propped himself on an elbow. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not at all. I just wanted to switch it up.” I pulled him on top of me and then gently took his shoulder and pushed him down. I watched the top of his head make its way past my stomach and dip between my legs. Then I couldn’t say anything else because my dead zone had just shocked me with a sign of life.

And then there was another sign and a wave of pleasure, at once familiar and surprising. Maybe the wine had been a good idea, because I didn’t think about Sanjay’s ten o’clock shadow chafing my thighs or that we were doing this, well, sort of because he had asked me to, or that I literally couldn’t remember the last time he had done this particular thing to me. For a few minutes, I was able to let go of everything.

But then, out of nowhere, I began doing marital math in my head. I was making progress on Sanjay’s request (finally). Which was fantastic, but I was still coming up short. He had been doing the dishes and making lunches—not well, but at least he was doing it. Just the day before I’d caught him wielding the minivacuum like he was on payroll at Molly Maid. And the same day we had traded lists, he had done the impossible: folded the laundry and put each piece into its correct drawer.

In a split second, my pleasure withered into nothingness.

“Hang on,” I said to Sanjay. “I need a minute. Sorry.”

His head surfaced. He looked confused.

“I was really enjoying it, but then I started thinking about the wrong thing and—I’m sorry. It’s really not you.”

“If it’s not me, who were you thinking about?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

I couldn’t help but laugh, and then I was glad that I did because the fog started to lift. I wasn’t turned on anymore, but that didn’t mean I was done making progress. “Where were we?” I said, guiding Sanjay up toward me.

I began pulling his boxers down, but he stopped me. “No, it’s okay.”

“Why not?” I said.

He made a face. “That was nice. Let’s leave it at that and try again another time.”

“Really?” I said. “Do you not want me to succeed?”

He pulled his head back. “Is that the only reason you wanted to do this?”

“No,” I said. “I was trying to be spontaneous. But then I started thinking about how you’re doing so well and I’m, um, not.”

He turned off the lamp on his nightstand. “This isn’t a contest, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

But what I really knew was that “This isn’t a contest” was something winners said to make losers feel better.



The next morning, I stood in the kitchen surveying Sanjay’s success. The dishes were done and the counters, while hardly sparkling, were cleaner than they’d been since Riya’s last visit. In less than a week Sanjay had already aced one of my three requests. Granted, he had not secured a job yet—which was fine, I knew that took time—but if the man was willing to sanitize the sink, it was feasible that he could eventually solve world peace if he were so inclined.

He’d have the money thing figured out in no time.

“Miles, stop !” yelled Stevie from somewhere else in the house.

“No, you stop!” he yelled back.

My instinct was to intervene before one of them sent the other to urgent care, but Sanjay was awake—he could do it. I began going through the motions of making coffee as I waited for him to intervene.