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Coups de cœur Cultura
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My husband hasn't touched me in four months.
I bought a bikini to save my marriage. Black lace, mesh panels, the kind of thing a forty-seven-year-old woman puts on for one last desperate play at her husband's attention. Richard looked right through me and asked about lunch.
He booked us a romantic getaway, a plantation resort in Natchez, Mississippi. The therapist said reconnect. Richard heard fishing trip. Then he fell asleep on the beach before the charter even arrived, and when the guide showed up, Moses, a sixty-eight-year-old river man, silver-haired and broad-shouldered and built from four decades of hauling lines on the Mississippi, my husband waved a hand without opening his eyes. Go without me, babe.
He didn't ask who the guide was. Didn't look at him. Didn't think twice about sending his wife up a river alone with a stranger. Because to Richard I'd become furniture. Safe. Predictable. The kind of woman who comes home.
So I went. And I told myself it was about the fishing.
I told myself a lot of things on that boat. That I was just making conversation. That I wasn't staring at his arms. That the heat between my legs was the Mississippi sun and nothing else. I believed all of it, the way you believe something you need to believe, because the alternative meant admitting that twenty-two years of faithfulness were about to end in a cypress creek with a man old enough to be my father.
Moses didn't push. He didn't have to. He'd been reading women like me for forty years, and he knew what I was before I did.
By the time that boat turned back toward the dock, I was not the woman who had stepped onto it.
