Five Years After His “Real Estate” Joke, She Told Her Husband What Happened Whenever He Touched Her
He did not tell Sana the details of those sessions. He did tell her, when she asked, that he was learning how often he used humor to get out of the vulnerable part of a conversation.
“What vulnerable part?” she asked during one of their phone calls.
“The part where I say, ‘I want you,’ and have to survive not knowing what that means to you.”
Sana sat on the floor of Jo’s apartment with her back against the bed. “You could have said that.”
“I know.”
“You could say it now.”
“I want you.”
Her body reacted before her mind did. Shoulders tightening. Breath shortening.
Gabe heard the silence. “That wasn’t helpful.”
“It wasn’t harmful,” she said. “That’s different.”
“I’m learning that too.”
At work, Gabe stopped making jokes about people’s bodies. He had not thought of himself as someone who did that often. Once he began listening, he heard how casually his colleagues described tenants, clients, women on television, even themselves.
One afternoon, a contractor made a comment about a homeowner’s weight while they were reviewing a renovation estimate.
Gabe looked down at the paperwork. His first impulse was to make a better joke.
Instead, he said, “Can we not?”
The contractor stared at him. “What?”
“Can we not turn someone’s body into part of the inspection?”
The words sounded stiff. Almost theatrical.
He felt embarrassed, but he didn’t soften them with a laugh.
That evening, he told his therapist that he wanted to text Sana about it.
“Why?” the therapist asked.
“So she knows I’m changing.”
“Are you changing for her approval?”
Gabe looked away.
He didn’t send the text.
Meanwhile, Sana began taking longer walks without headphones. She went into clothing stores and tried on things she would have dismissed before, not because every garment suddenly looked wonderful but because she was tired of treating her body as a problem to solve before she was allowed to leave the house.
She bought a black sleeveless shirt.
At home, she wore it while making tea. The first time, she kept checking the reflection in the microwave door. The second time, she forgot.
That felt more important than liking what she saw.
One night, Jo found her standing in the kitchen with both lights on.
“You okay?” Jo asked.
“Yes.”
“Actually?”
Sana considered the question. “I’m not okay in a dramatic way.”
Jo leaned against the counter. “That’s usually the most inconvenient kind.”
Sana laughed.
Then she said, “I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want that to mean I’m ready to go back.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I don’t want not missing him to mean I’m done.”
“It doesn’t.”
Sana turned off the kettle before it whistled. “I hate that everything has become a sign.”
“Then don’t make it one.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I’m not married to him.”
“No.”
“And I’m not married to you either, which means I can be objective.”
Sana looked at her.
Jo shrugged. “You’re allowed to miss the man who hurt you. You’re allowed to love him. You’re also allowed to decide love isn’t enough.”
Sana nodded.
The difficult part was that she already knew all of that. Knowing it did not make the decision smaller.
***
At the fifth week, Gabe and Sana met in a diner near the courthouse.
Gabe arrived without flowers, gifts, or a folder.
“You brought nothing,” Sana said.
“I thought about bringing something.”
“What?”
“A book. Or the dress.”
She looked at him sharply.
“The dress is in the back of my closet,” he said. “I didn’t touch it.”
“Why would you bring it?”
“I wouldn’t. That’s why I left it there.”
She sat across from him. The diner smelled like coffee and buttered toast. A waitress refilled their water without asking.
Gabe said, “I don’t want to make this a progress meeting.”
“Then what is it?”
“A decision meeting.”
Sana’s chest tightened. “That sounds like a progress meeting with a more expensive name.”
“I’m not asking you to decide whether you can touch me.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether we’re trying to make a marriage that doesn’t depend on you touching me, or whether we’re ending the marriage because we don’t know how to do that.”
She looked out the window. Cars moved along the wet street, their tires whispering over the pavement.
“Those are not the same thing,” she said.
“No. But both are real.”
“You want an answer.”
“I want honesty. That may not be an answer today.”
She returned her gaze to him. “What happens if I come home and nothing changes?”
“Then we tell the truth again.”
“What if I never want sex with you again?”
He took a breath. “Then we decide whether we can be married without it.”
“And can you?”
“I don’t know.”
The honesty hurt more than reassurance would have.
He continued, “I know I can’t demand it. I know I can’t use my patience as a receipt. But I also know I don’t want to pretend physical closeness doesn’t matter to me. I would rather hear the truth than be quietly spared from it.”
Sana wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
“I don’t want to come home because you’ve behaved well for six weeks,” she said.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to come home and have you become terrified of touching me.”
“I’m already terrified.”
“Then don’t make that my new job.”
“I won’t.”
“I don’t want a system. No charts. No exercises. No rules about how many times we have to hold hands.”
“I hate charts.”
“You love charts.”
“I hate what charts would do to this.”
She studied him. “You really have thought about this.”
“I have thought about everything except the thing I should have thought about first.”
“What’s that?”
“That you were asking me a real question when you asked if you looked beautiful.”
Her eyes filled, but she did not look away.
Gabe said, “I don’t know if I can give you back the years. I don’t know if I can make my face disappear from your mind when you look at yourself. But I can stop asking your body to prove that we’re okay.”
Sana wiped under one eye with her fingertip.
“I want to come home,” she said.
Gabe’s face opened with hope, and she saw it.
“Not like before,” she added.
The hope settled into something quieter.
“Separate rooms,” she said. “No assumption that coming home means we’re physically close. You can ask for a hug. I can say no. You can be disappointed, but you can’t make me manage your disappointment.”
“Okay.”
“And I need to keep seeing Dr. Patel. Alone and together.”
“Okay.”
“And if I tell you to stop, you stop without making me explain in that moment.”
“Okay.”
She leaned back. “You’re agreeing too fast.”
“I’m scared if I say anything else, I’ll ruin it.”
“That’s not sustainable.”
“I know.”
She almost smiled. “Then say something else.”
Gabe looked at her for a long moment.
“I want you home,” he said. “Not because I need access to you. Because I miss the way you argue with restaurant menus and leave books open facedown and hum when you’re trying to remember a name. I miss my wife. I don’t know what shape our marriage will have, but I want to meet you there.”