Married Sex by Jesse Kornbluth

Author:Jesse Kornbluth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2015-03-03T22:04:50+00:00

Chapter 18

Hidden in the Metro section of the Sunday Times is a feature called “Sunday Routine” that chronicles, hour by hour, how prominent New Yorkers spend their day off.

Almost without exception, these people used to sleep in on Sundays. Then they got dogs—from shelters, they’re quick to say—and now their pets rouse them early, so their day begins with walks in the park. They have coffee in mugs—always in mugs—and read the paper. The real paper, the paper paper. Food is optional. Maybe toast or oatmeal. They catch up on Facebook posts and are surprised by how many “friends” they’ve acquired since they last checked. They hit the gym and the flea market; Zabar’s is a frequent destination. Night falls and, at last, they feed. Fish. Kale. Wakame, nine-grain Japanese rice, salmon roe for protein. Their wild excess? A shared dessert. A favorite show on TV, saved for Sunday night. A book. Then sleep, surrounded by dogs.

These are rich, textured lives, and these people are, for all their prominence, surprisingly restrained. No lunch at Balthazar or Swifty’s. No jaunts in the Jaguar to hang with hedge funders in Greenwich. And most of all: no sex. Partners, lovers, and spouses are mentioned, but carnal activity is omitted. Relationships are presented as old shoes. And someone always goes to sleep earlier.

Our Sundays are different.

We had the dream child: no desire for pets, plants, or any Disney destination. So even when Ann was here, Blair slept in on Sundays. I’d be up early, clear a week’s worth of personal email, and—I was an English major, so old habits die hard—read the paper, the real paper, marking the articles I thought Blair shouldn’t miss. At nine, using an old-fashioned espresso machine, I’d make Blair a double shot and deliver it to her with the paper. I’d pay bills and read about investing, which I’m not good at but want to be. Ann, afflicted with teenage narcolepsy, would wake up at eleven, text her friends, hit me up for money, and abandon us for the day.

Since Ann left, we’ve been spending Sundays on the street. After soup and a sandwich, we head out, walking fast, destination unknown, returning at dusk. Dinner is pasta with vegetables. A long bath for Blair. Beer and the last football game of the weekend for me. Then a short, friendly session in bed—what a friend calls “fucking lite”—and dreamland.

Decades of fantasy and anticipation, then you get what you wanted—not surprising that I felt drained and slept late. Blair, up early, seemed frazzled. I read this as a delayed reaction. What kind of reaction … I didn’t know. And I wanted to. So I brought espresso and settled into bed next to her.

The way to begin this conversation required delicacy, tact, and finesse. Instead, I said, “My head is full of sentences that are so amazing to me I can’t quite accept them as true.”

“Like?”

Where I was coming from: adolescence, the sequel. In my head, this was exactly the right time to review the night’s highlight reel.

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