I waited. We'd talked about being tired, about routines, about how months could disappear between a grocery run and another weekend of catching up on laundry. We had even talked, awkwardly, about counseling. I assumed we were about to have a version of that conversation, perhaps one that would finally force us to take it seriously.
“I don't know whether I'm still the person I was when we got married,” she continued. “I don't know whether what I feel for you is love or just comfort.”
“That sounds like something we should work through together.”
“That's the problem. Every time we try to work through it together, I end up thinking about what you need instead of what I need.”
The sentence struck me, not because she said it cruelly, but because I couldn't remember the last time she'd asked what I needed. I ignored that thought. “Then we can find a counselor you like. Take time off. Change something about our schedule.”
She stared at the countertop. “I want to see other people.”
At first I thought she'd said she wanted to see other friends. That was how impossible the other interpretation seemed. “What?”
“Other men. I want to go on dates and let myself experience something different without constantly feeling guilty. I need to know whether what we have is still what I want.”
I looked from her face to the suitcase. “And you're telling me this with your bag already packed?”
“I didn't want to turn it into a two-week argument.”
“Were you planning to tell me before you walked out?”
“Of course.”
“How long?”
“Eleven days.”
“Why eleven?”
“Because that's the time I arranged away from work, and because I need space without you counting every hour.”