“I've been feeling stuck,” she said. “Not with my job. With us.”
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.”
I sat down. My feet felt strangely heavy. “Are you asking me for a separation?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“It means I don't want to destroy our marriage. I want to find out if I still choose it when I'm not obligated to.”
“By sleeping with other men?”
She flinched at the word sleeping, then rolled her eyes. “You make everything sound ugly when you're hurt. I said exploring. Dating. Talking to people. Feeling like a person again.”
“I see you as a person.”
“That's not what I mean.”
“Then help me understand.”
She gripped the edge of the island. “Maybe if we both had a little freedom, we'd appreciate each other more. People do this. Marriages change. It's not 1950.”
“I don't care what people do. We promised each other something, and I still mean it.”
“You make it sound like a prison sentence.”
“No. I'm saying I want to be married to someone who wants to be married to me.”
She gave a small, impatient sigh. “Daniel, I am not asking permission. I'm trying to be honest with you.”