If it wasn’t good, don’t say anything, because tomorrow may be better. After all, we’re married. We have our whole lives ahead of us.
There is nothing else to discover, and we try to get as much pleasure as possible from the same things. This is like eating chocolate every day, without changing brands or trying new flavors: it’s not a sacrifice, but isn’t there anything else?
Of course there is: little toys you can buy at sex shops, swinger clubs, inviting a third person to join, or taking adventurous chances at parties hosted by unconventional friends.
To me, this is all very risky. We don’t know what the consequences will be—it’s better to leave things alone.
And so the days go by. We discover by talking with friends that the so-called simultaneous orgasm—where a couple becomes aroused at the same time, caressing the same parts and moaning in unison—is a myth. How can I have pleasure if I have to be paying attention to what I’m doing? Touch my body, drive me wild, and then I’ll do the same to you—that would be more natural.
But most of the time that’s not how it is. The communion has to be “perfect,” or, in other words, nonexistent.
And careful with the moaning, so as not to wake the children.
Ah, I’m glad that’s over, I was so tired and don’t know how I managed. You’re the best! Good night.
Until the day when one of the two realizes they need a break from the routine. But instead of going to swinger clubs, or sex shops full of gadgets we can’t even figure out how to work properly, or to the home of wild friends who keep discovering new things, we decide to … spend some time without the children.
Plan a romantic getaway. With no surprises. Where everything will be absolutely, utterly planned and organized.
And we think this a great idea.
I create a fake e-mail account. I have the drugs, duly tested (followed by my vow never to do that again, because it felt great).
I know how to enter the university without being seen and plant the evidence in Marianne’s desk. All I have to do is determine which drawer she won’t be opening anytime soon, which is the riskiest part of my plan. But that’s what the drug dealer suggested, and I should listen to the voice of experience.
I can’t ask a student for help. I’ll have to do it on my own. But other than this, I’ve got nothing else to do but nurture my husband’s “romantic dream” and bombard Jacob’s phone with my messages of love and hope.
The conversation with the drug dealer gave me an idea, which I put into practice: every day I send text messages of love and encouragement. This can work in two ways. The first is that Jacob will realize he has my support and that I’m not the least bit upset about our meeting at the golf club. The second, should the first fail, is if Mme K?nig one day goes to the trouble of rummaging through her husband’s phone.
I go online, copy something that seems intelligent, and press “send.”
Since the election, nothing important has happened in Geneva. Jacob is no longer quoted in the press, and I have no idea what is happening with him. Only one thing has mobilized public opinion lately: whether or not the city should cancel the New Year’s Eve party.
According to some deputies, the expense is “exorbitant.” I was in charge of finding out exactly what that meant. I went to city hall and uncovered the amount: 115,000 Swiss francs, or what two people—me, and the colleague who works beside me, for example—pay in taxes.
In other words, with the tax money from two citizens who earn a reasonable but not extraordinary salary, they could make thousands of people happy. But no. We must save our money, because no one knows what the future has in store. Meanwhile, the city’s coffers fill. We might run out of salt to dump on the streets this winter to keep the snow from turning into ice and causing accidents, or the sidewalks are always in need of repair. Everywhere you look there is roadwork and construction that no one can explain.
Happiness can wait. What’s important is “keeping up appearances,” which really means “don’t let anyone realize that we are extremely wealthy.”
I have to wake up early tomorrow and get to work. The fact that Jacob has ignored my messages has brought me closer to my husband. Yet I still intend to exact some revenge.
True, I have almost no desire to go through with it now, but I hate to abandon my plans halfway. Living is making decisions and dealing with the consequences. I haven’t done that in a long time, and perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m lying here in the middle of the night and staring at the ceiling again.
Sending messages to a man who rejects me is a waste of time and money. I no longer care about his happiness. Actually, I want him to be really unhappy, because I offered him the best part of me and he suggested I try marriage counseling.
And because of that, I must put that witch in jail, even if my soul lingers in purgatory for centuries.
I must? Where did that come from? I’m tired, so tired, and I can’t sleep.
“Married Women More Likely to Suffer from Depression than Single Women,” claimed an article published in today’s newspaper.
I didn’t read it. But this year is turning out to be very, very strange.
When I was a teenager, everything in my life went exactly as I planned. I was happy … but now something has happened.
It’s like a virus has infected the computer. The destruction has begun, slow but relentless. Everything is slowing down. Some large programs now require a lot of memory to open. Certain files—photos, documents—have disappeared without a trace.
We looked for the reason but found nothing. We asked friends who know more about these things, but they are unable to detect the problem, either. The computer is becoming empty, sluggish, and it is no longer ours. The undetectable virus now owns it. Sure, we can always switch to a new machine, but what about the things stored there, the things that took so many years to put in order? Are they lost forever?
It’s not fair.
I don’t have the slightest control over what is happening. My absurd infatuation with a man who, by now, must think he’s being harassed. My marriage to a man who seems close, but who never shows his weaknesses and vulnerabilities. The desire to destroy someone I met only once, on the pretext that it will do away with my inner ghosts.
A lot of people say time heals all wounds, but that isn’t true.
Apparently, time heals only the good things that we wish to hold on to forever. Time tells us, “Don’t be fooled, this is reality.” That’s why the things I read to lift my spirits don’t stay with me for very long. There is a hole in my soul that drains me of all positive energy, leaving behind only emptiness. I know the hole well—I have lived with it for months—but I don’t know how to escape its hold over me.
Jacob thinks I need marriage counseling. My boss considers me an excellent journalist. My children notice a change in my behavior, but ask nothing. My husband understood what I was feeling only after we went to a restaurant and I tried to open my soul to him.
I take the iPad from the nightstand. I multiply 365 by 70. The answer is 25,550. That’s the average number of days a normal person lives. How many have I already wasted?
People around me always complain about everything. “I work eight hours a day, and if I get promoted, I’ll be working twelve.” “Ever since I got married, I don’t have any time for myself.” “I searched for God and now I have to go to church services, Mass, and religious ceremonies.”
Everything we seek so enthusiastically before we reach adulthood—love, work, faith—turns into a burden too heavy to bear.
There is only one way to escape this: love. To love is to transform slavery into freedom.
But right now, I can’t love. I just feel hate.
And as absurd as this might sound, it gives meaning to my days.