I had decorated the bedroom myself, without any help from Thomas. Most stuff in the house, Thomas wanted to have some say, not just because he was paying for it, and not just because he was trying to find ways to fill his time, but because he was interested in home decorating. We watched a lot of those shows, all the time, all kinds of home decorating. There were the shows that had people decorating their houses for less than five hundred bucks, and the shows where they switched homes with their friends, the disaster zone homes, and the millionaire homes. We liked the poor people shows the best because they always cried at the end. A lot of people were out there fixing up their homes. Trying to make their lives just a little bit better. Thomas totally got that, and so did I.
But I said please let this room be mine. Let me do for you as a wife should do for a husband. I realize now that these are meaningless words. That I made up what was supposed to be right. I cobbled together this image of marriage from scraps of memories and TV shows and movies. God knows neither of our parents had a marriage we wanted to model ourselves after. It was all made up, our marriage. Thomas did it, too. We were trying to be normal, but we did not realize there was no right way or wrong way.
Still, I said: let me give you something special. When it came down to it though, I made it all white. All white with lots of patterns and textures, the curtains had layers of white stripes and there were white flowers embroidered into the comforter. White fluffy pillows, white carpeting, glossy pretty white walls. I wanted to feel really clean in my bedroom. I did not want any of that outside world, that dirty world, coming into our marital bed. None of that fake stuff Thomas liked to watch on late-night cable, and no memories of that day at the dirty magazine shop. It should just be our sanctuary.
I watched him take his clothes off. His nice dress shirt he had worn to the doctor’s office, with the pretty blue stripes and the crisp collar, the one I had bought for him in Lincoln, for all those meetings he had after his dad died. Underneath there was a thick patch of hair in the middle of his chest, and it turned me on, the way the hair spread out like ivy on the side of a building, down his stomach and around his nipples. He unbuckled his belt, and there was the sound of metal hitting metal, and it rang out high and clear like a bell.
“I love you,” I said. I was so nervous.
“I love you, too,” he said. He slipped the pants down over his legs, never taking his eyes away from me the whole while, like if he did I might disappear. He looked serious. His legs were so skinny. I wanted to feel him more than ever in that moment. I spread my legs apart and bent my knees a bit. I tried to relax myself, from my belly on down. Let it flow.
But even as I did that, there was another part of me fighting, squeezing me close inside. A whisper in my ear. Just hold on tight. It will be over soon.
He pulled down his shorts at last, but he was on me in a flash, so I could not see it. I did not know if it had worked or not. There was the usual small, hard feeling against my leg, and then Thomas started kissing me and touching me all over, only breasts and stomach and hips and legs, fast and noisy, with crazy kisses that made smacking sounds.
His lips and his tongue felt nice against my skin. I liked the way he was rushing. I started to get into it. I made a few noises. I did not know where they came from, but there they were.
His thighs were on mine, and he was moving, and he was whispering in my ear, something, my name, his love, words mashed together. Everything was clenched inside me. Moonie, he said, over and over again. And then I became numb.
I held my breath. I held it in, so close inside. I wanted to feel. I prayed to feel.
But there was nothing there. I tried to reach deep and connect with him. But there was just a big gaping hole where a feeling should have been.