If my wife had just let me fuck her, none of this would have happened.
I woke up before my alarm with morning wood. Liz was asleep beside me. It was still two hours before she had to leave to go into work—the restaurant didn’t open until lunch on weekdays. I rolled onto my side and pressed myself against her, pulling her toward me and kissing her neck. She groaned.
“What are you doing?”
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Bill, I’m tired.”
“That’s fine, my love,” I whispered as I caressed her left breast. “I’ll do all the work.” She shoved her shoulder against me.
“I’m serious. Knock it off. I’m not in the mood.”’
I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
Not in the mood, I thought to myself. What a shock.
I scolded myself for being bitter. Liz was a good woman. She was a hard worker, and a good mother to her daughter. But after her daughter, Katie, had started college, Liz had opened her restaurant like she always dreamt, and although she loved it, it exhausted her. I could count on one hand the times we had had sex in the two years since then.