Deez Treez

I sat my husband down and told him I don’t enjoy sex with him anymore. I said it plainly. I’d rehearsed it in the shower for a week. I said, “It feels like a chore.” He didn’t argue. He nodded slowly, the way he does when someone reads him a budget. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.” That was it. I expected a fight. I expected him to slam a door. He opened his laptop. I thought, he’s ignoring me. Again. The next morning my phone buzzed at 7:12am. A calendar invite. “Thursday, 9:00pm. Duration: 1 hour. Location: Bedroom.” Under description, he’d written: “Per your feedback.” I stared at it for a full minute. I texted him: “Is this a joke?” He replied: “No. You said it feels like a chore. I’m taking it seriously.” Taking it seriously. He’d added a reminder 24 hours before. Then a second one, two hours before. On Thursday at 8:58pm, he stood in the doorway with his phone in his hand. “I’m on time,” he said. I laughed, and then I stopped, because he wasn’t laughing. He truly believed he’d solved it.