One Way Marriage

One Way Marriage

PART ONE

By

Xavier Couperin

I remember the exact moment it all began; though Fiona’s take on the genesis of my fall might date from a little earlier and, now I think of it, is probably the more accurate observation of the two:

“You just don’t do it for me anymore,” my wife of ten years said, settling a pair of still full breasts into a black bra; breasts that continued to defy the pull of a gravity made greater with each passing year – though not so pristine she could decline a helping hand from Gossard.

Wrapped in my bathrobe and stepping into the bedroom from the en-suite, I’d looked across at her; not sure if I’d heard correctly and, if I had, unsure exactly just what it was I didn’t “do” for her anymore.

“I’m not with you, love,” I told her. “What don’t I do for you?”

She was getting ready for the office, about to get dressed before she took off to the Insurance Company in London where she had just been promoted to Office Manager. Leaving her recently unemployed husband to scan the jobs vacant pages before wandering down to the Jobcentre in his latest and, most probably (it did indeed turn out to be the case), luckless attempt to rejoin the workforce.

My lack of success in the job hunting field crucial, I now know, to the success of her own ambitions in my regard.

I watched as she pulled on some skimpy black panties, plump buttocks peeking out from under the fabric; the same buttocks I’d always wanted to slam my cock between on route to drilling her anus.

Her response always being in the negative:

“When you can bring yourself to go down on me, I’ll think about it. Until then…”

Going down on her, as she well knew, something I didn’t consider very… manly – my reluctance, if a certain HBO drama had it right, something I shared with any number of Mafioso and Italian/Americans of a certain age.

My refusal to dance oral attendance on her pussy leading to the off-limits sign she subsequently placed on its reverse; only too aware of my penchant for it –how could she not have been- and denying me even a kiss on those wonderful, smooth and plump, buns from then on.

Though, as a testament to my willpower, and even with such a carrot dangled before me, I didn’t cave.

Oh, yes, Martin Kent –that’s me- might have ruled the roost but, when the bridal bonnet happened to find a bee occupying it, his wife was no pushover.

Warning signs hinting at a possible coup, the king –me- paid no attention to whatsoever.

To those of you scanning this confession with similar delusions of household omnipotence?

Read on and learn.

“When I say: you don’t do it for me,” she explained, smiling sweetly, “I refer to your tiny cock.”

“My ti…?”

“It just doesn’t get me there anymore.”

I remember staring at her with total bewilderment as she pulled open the drawer containing her hose, my sudden inability to speak suiting her fine:

“ Not that it was ever that brilliant,” she went on with a snort. “Let’s be honest: you can’t make candyfloss with a toothpick now, can you? ”

“Toothpi…?”

Anger had sidelined bemusement now and I switched to the dark look I always adopted to let her know it wasn’t wise to mess with me.

Not that it was winning me much respite lately:

“Is this a joke, Fiona?”

“If it is I can’t say it’s ever made me laugh,” she replied with a sneer, running a hand through her short, pageboy cut, hair; my “Dark look”, predictably, having failed to work its magic.

Again.

The law of diminishing returns, as mentioned above, having decided to kick in with a vengeance about a year previous to this particular morning fracas.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” she told me, searching the drawer.

I shook my head with disgust, buying time to think up a suitably withering riposte.

Too much time, as it turned out:

“How long have we been married now?” she asked, beating me to it, buttocks assaulting my vision as she bent over to get deeper into the drawer.

My anger sidelined now as panic took over.

Had I missed another anniversary?

Was that why she was being such a ballbreaker?

“Ten years,” she supplied the answer for me - as if I didn’t know.

I waited for the point to arrive – there was always a point.

“Which is ten times more than any orgasms you’ve given me.”

My relief another year hadn’t passed without my noticing immediately receding as anger made a comeback:

“Bollocks!” I told her, really pissed-off now. “You expect me to believe that?”

It was yet another in a number of conversations she’d instigated on the subject of my shortcomings. In fact, since I’d been laid off and she’d been promoted, I had noticed a little attitude towards me – well, more than a little, actually. More and more, I was getting the impression she regarded me as some kind of second-class citizen.

If that.

This was just the latest –though most cutting thus far- example of what appeared to be her growing contempt for me.

Though things hadn’t started out that way.

Of course, when we’d first met a different dynamic had been in place.

Back then it had been a smitten Fiona who’d pursued me while I remained purposefully aloof.

Not to indulge in false modesty, I was a good-looking guy back then and –some grey hairs and a negligible amount of waist-pudding apart- still am; so, consequently, I saw no reason to limit my options.

Attracting women had never proved a problem and Fiona had been just the latest in a long line of them. The strength of her initial attraction –as it always does- placing the object of that attraction: me, in a position of power in the relationship.

A position carrying over into marriage itself and ensuring she pretty much let me do as I pleased – though I was careful to keep any bachelor like cavortings I made within the framework of matrimony discreet and under wraps.

Or so I thought.

Halcyon days, my friends.

And days that now seem a long, long, long way distant to the version of me fortunate enough to experience them.

But more of that later.

“Bollocks indeed, Mister,” she said, a certain eagerness in her expression telling me there was something in her baiting of me she found not displeasing.

Not even deigning me her full attention, so unthreatening or insignificant did she now appear to consider me, she again rooted through the drawer containing her stockings and pantyhose; adding:

“Your bollocks.”

Some black opaque hose was picked up, considered, and discarded.

I knew how it felt.

“And they just ain’t up to it,” she finished.

It was all getting too much for me. Bad enough for my sense of self worth when my company had hit the skids; but at least I’d managed to springboard into another job almost instantly. Now even that job had gone and, with another proving wilfully elusive -and to make the pill even more acidic- my wife seemed intent on diminishing whatever self-confidence I had left.

Justifying my anger, I think and assuming I was about to let her:

“If you’re trying to fucking annoy me, Fiona, you’re doing a bang up job,” I gave fair warning.

Locating the pantyhose she was after and sliding the drawer shut, she speared a look my way any half-wit would have found laughably interpretable:

“Big deal!” it said.

The question following my outburst indicating the level of its impact:

“Martin?” she began, voice even: “Have you ever wondered if I masturbate?”

I considered her words carefully – well, more with disbelief, to be truthful.

Had I really heard that?

“What did you say?”

“You heard well enough, I think,” she said

“Why on earth would you ask that?” I accused, thoughts thrown. “Of course I bloody haven’t. What’s got into…?”

“Well, just in case you have wondered and don’t fancy going to the trouble of doing so again, let me assure you, I take care of my sexual needs as and when the impulse takes me."

I stared at her, still startled from her first use of the word:  “Masturbate”.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m as open-minded as the next lecher; but there are some things you just don’t talk abou…

“Are you getting one of your little stiffies thinking about it?” she smirked, somehow mistaking my preoccupation for arousal; sliding tan pantyhose over legs that remained toned and shapely, despite the fact she was pushing forty to its very limit.

My mouth, as I picture the scene and recall her words, seemed intent on catching flies.

Sexual she may have been –and delightfully so in the early days of both our courtship and then marriage- but always in terms of actions rather than blunt, to the point, words.

“Don’t be ashamed to admit it now,” she teased her slack-jawed husband. “I know what turns little boys like you on.”

Standing to check herself out, she gave her last shot some thought as I bridled at being described in such a way by a woman -my wife- some four years younger than me.

Fiona going on as I pondered my annoyance:

“Just a shame you haven’t a clue when it comes to me.”

“Alright, Fiona, give it a rest will you? If I’ve pissed you off in some way just tell me. If it’s to do with me not finding work yet, I’ll soon…”

“Whether you go out to work or not makes no difference,” she came in over me. “The money I was left by my mum took care of the mortgage and with my promotion I’m earning more than enough to keep you.”

As you can probably imagine, the intimation she was now “Keeping” me was never likely to sit well with my already tried patience.

“Yeah, well,” I told her, “seeing as how I’ve spent the last ten years bringing the bacon home, it won’t hurt you to step in for a month or two until I find somethi…”

This time it was laughter that cut me off.

Laughter that was not exactly pleasant either.

“Please!” she told me when she was finished. “‘Bringing the bacon home?’

Her repetition of my phrase inspiring still more hilarity.

“Reliant on your efforts alone,” she offered, suddenly straight faced, “we’d have spent the last decade living off spam.”

“But…”

“Enough,” she snapped, holding up a hand imperiously; again talking over me as she slipped into her skirt and dipped her feet into a pair of black patent shoes with short spike heels. This new assertiveness of hers something I didn’t find attractive and wasn’t about to put up with for too much longer. Though, even I had to admit, not bringing a salary into the home was limiting my room for manoeuvre somewhat.

Just the same, I remember asking myself:

Who the fuck did she think she was?

A woman in a hurry apparently:

“I haven’t time for this right now,” she told me dismissively. “I’m already running late.”

She turned away from me, scanning the bedroom as if she’d misplaced something before continuing:

“But we do need to talk when I get home tonight.”

Turning back to me then as she remembered something:

“Things are going to change,” she said. “You can depend on it.”

About to turn again when something else triggered her memory:

“Oh!”

“What now?” I remember thinking.

“I’ll be late.

My look said:

“Who cares?”

“Very late,” she added.

“Whatever,” I responded with a shrug.

“Just so you know, I’m going for drinks with Chrissy after work.”

Then, not waiting for a reply and snatching up the jacket and case she’d been searching for, she was out the bedroom door and down the stairs, front door slamming behind her as I mulled over her parting words:

“Need to talk?” I asked myself. “Things are going to change?”

Who the fuck did she think she was talking to - one of her staff?

“And where did all this nonsense about sex come from?” I interrogated myself as I made my way downstairs.

Sure, she’d told me she loved it soon after we first met. Not exactly unwelcome news to the constantly horny twenty-nine-year-old I’d been at the time. Even if there were occasions when she seemed insatiable for more than I could deliver.

Quite a few occasions as it happened.

But, come on, now; hardly an intimidating discovery is it?

I mean: women are built to outlast men in that department.

Aren’t they?

It’s the reality of our respective tackle.

Isn’t it?

Anyway, so far so bloody obvious – the above point, whatever my wife might try to say, one that had nothing to do with size.

So what if I couldn’t keep pace with her?

Who could?

“Kevin was far more considerate than you,” she’d informed me during our early days together.

This after my efforts had once again done the trick for me and, once again, left her wanting and eager for far more than either my staying power or my average length and width -I promise- equipment could provide.

“If he finished and thought I wasn’t satisfied he’d get down between my legs and make sure I was – without me even having to ask.”

My reply to her is still crystal clear:

“Perhaps you should have married the sick fucker then,” I’d told her - a little nauseated if I’m honest. The imagery of the guy getting down there and using his tongue after he’d dumped a load of his own…”

“Ugh!”

“Sometimes,” she’d gone on as if I hadn’t spoken - flashback to this willingness on his part fetching a nostalgic look to her face: “he’d get down there and look after me for hours. Didn’t matter if I was watching television or having a catch up on the phone with friends. Got to the stage where I could just point a finger at my pussy when I wanted some attention and he’d be down there like a shot.”

Her expression as she recalled her ex, I seem to remember, both wistful and resentful.

“Yeah, well,” I’d snorted, resentful myself. “If wimps are what do it for you perhaps you should have stayed with the one you had.”

After a full-blown slanging match –a slanging match I thought I took on a late technical knockout- the subject of “Kevin” didn’t arise again and I managed to convince myself her cries whenever we hit the mattress were born of bona fide pleasure; rather than bona fide acting.

My efforts with the conjugals, I’d congratulated myself, were paying off and -as I’d been certain they would- seemed to be hitting the spot with her.

The absence of the kids normally resulting from such efforts not being something she was bothered about and a lack worrying me not a jot.

Neither of us had any desire to join the rest of the: “Baby On Board” brigade - in both neighbourhood and social circle. And our observation of the day-today of those who had decided to go for the school-run option wasn’t about to change this area of concurrence in our lives.

A small mercy as it turns out.

Soon, we were settling in to married life together and, despite early reservations for my performance in the sack, she gradually seemed to reach a point where she could take pleasure from it.

All in all, I’d prided myself; our sex life was fulfilling and satisfying to us both.

Pride which did, of course -and if not misplaced- beg the question:

“Why, if fulfilment was the case, had she suddenly put masturbation in the frame?”

A question; even at the height of my denial; that wasn’t exactly difficult for me to supply both an answer and an identity.

The above components combined in the shapely, if malign, form of the person my wife was meeting after work that evening:

“Chrissy”.

The ex-wife of my former friend, Gordon, and an out-and-out bad influence.

The purest, twenty-one-carat, bitch, in fact, ever to have been born with a great pair of legs and magnificent tits.

Legs and, especially, tits that made her initially popular with the men of our little set - while, understandably, getting a cooler reaction from their wives.

Mine apart, that is.

They really seemed to hit it off and even when –early fixation with legs and mammaries wearing thin in the face of Chrissy’s “Toxic” personality- I suggested Fiona give her a wide berth, she insisted on continuing to see her.

My wife even making excuses for her when Gordon came home one afternoon to find her riding ten inches of solid black cock in their bedroom.

A warning sign if ever there was one, and one -with the flawed antenna I now consider responsible for my business going under- that sailed serenely under the Kent radar.

The fact Fiona made excuses at all should surely have alerted me to the fact she herself was…

Later.

Anyway, and as you’d expect, my pals and their wives took Gordon’s side while Fiona remained adamant she was going to stay loyal to her “Friend”.

This touching loyalty on her part ensuring it wasn’t long before our friends turned against us too.

Despite the fact I liked the traitorous bitch with the humongous tits even less than they did.

From having a vibrant social life with friends of long standing –mostly mine- we went to zilcho.

Or, rather: I did.

Fiona -over my disapproval and a number of flaming rows on the subject- seeing more and more of my one-time friend’s ex-wife from then on.

“Fine!” I remember yelling to her, as she was on her way out to meet the bitch. “See her as much as you like. But that cheating slut doesn’t set one foot inside my house.”

Fiona’s reply had been a simple and derisory smirk before she took up her jacket and left for whatever her and the bitch had planned that evening.

It was a development I remained unhappy with and one that coincided with my being let go by the insurance company with whom I’d eked out a living for the last five years.

Coinciding also, with the death of Fiona’s mother that allowed us to pay off our –my wife’s- mortgage.

You see; I’d run into some heavy credit-card debt trying to set up my own pensions company before I was forced to take the insurance job, leading to both me and Fiona thinking it would be a good idea to put the house in her name. This rather than run the risk of either repossession or the finance companies we owed selling our home out from under us at bottom dollar.

A “Good idea”, for reasons I’m sure you can follow, that doesn’t seem quite so good to me now.

An idea made even worse by my playing it on the safe side (give credit-card companies an inch and they’ll take your pile, having been my motto up to then) to close off every loophole.

Hence my suggestion to Fiona, prompted by my own solicitor, that we sign an agreement giving me no claim on the property should we separate.

Suffice it to say: he’s not my solicitor now.

And wouldn’t be even if I could afford to retain one.

Looking back with the usual wisdom supplied by hindsight, I see that decision –putting the house in her name and then allowing her to buy the mortgage with her late mother’s money- as the trigger for Fiona’s assertiveness towards me.

Newly minted confidence that seemed to be growing exponentially.

The same, growing self-assurance that had prompted her to rubbish my tackle.

Life was good and getting better – not.

After her car pulled off the drive and headed for the M25 en-route to West London, I made myself a tea and pondered my options.

It was mid-morning and I was on my third cup when I realised they boiled down to one:

If things were to get back to anywhere near normal, I told myself, I needed a job.

Big time!

I’d fallen asleep in front of the television when the slamming of the front door woke me.

“You waited up for me, how sweet,” I heard Fiona say as I rubbed my eyes.

As she placed her case on the floor and came to stand in front of me, I rose to a sitting position and peered at my watch.

Groggily.

“It’s almost twelve,” I’d said, not quite up to speed still.

“Tempus fugit,” she agreed.

“What?”

“It means…”

I know what it fucking means,” I cut her off. “What have you been doing until this time?”

“Martin, I might not be an ugly sister, but I’m hardly Cinderella either. I’m not about to turn into a pumpkin if the big hand creeps past midnight.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” I told her as she took a seat opposite me, kicking off her shoes and crossing her smooth bare legs before giving my jogging pants and tee shirt a sarcastic once over.

I tore my eyes away from the sight. Legs, she knew, were my weak spot, and right then I wanted to keep my anger hot – even if I do remember feeling a little puzzled.

“Hadn’t she been wearing tights when she went out?”

Temper too molten at that point to consider it right then:

“And it wasn’t fucking Cinderella who would have turned into a pumpkin anyway,” I reminded her. “It was the carriage that took her to the ball.”

“Well, well,” she clucked, “this is a night of firsts.”

“What did she mean by that?” I recall thinking, tiny alarm bells, set to clanging by the absence of her pantyhose, going off in a distant room just off the cerebellum.

“I had no idea you were such an authority on fairy tales,” she went on. “Pretty apt really, seeing as our marriage turned into one years ago – for me anyway.”

“Could this possibly be good?” I’d asked myself, already braced for her response.

“And not the fairy tale of a girl’s dreams either,” she added, answering my question for me.

Fiona stretched her arms to the ceiling, catlike, and I snatched a glimpse of her cleavage through the loosened buttons of her shirt.

“Snatched,” you see, because she’d cut me off completely for the last few months. And, even before that, sex had been sanctioned with a frequency only slightly above starvation rations. A loss –given my reduced financial means and the social status to which I’d been consigned by her friendship with Chrissy- leaving me with little other option but to return to the trusty right hand of my teens.

In truth, I’d been losing interest in her for a long time before she decided it was time to ration out our bedroom activity. Easing back gradually before deciding to strike it from the curriculum completely. Explaining she’d made her decision because her new responsibilities at the workplace left her feeling too exhausted. Pointing out to me; when I mentioned she didn’t seem “Too” exhausted to meet up with “Chrissy”; that she needed relaxation and winding down after another hard day rather than the exertions of sex.

“It’s all too much trouble after ten hours at the office,” she actually told me, managing to disparage my performances in the bedroom and remind me of my joblessness with one compact sentence.

So, that being the case –and men being the perverse creatures we are- I suppose it was inevitable I’d start lusting over her again the moment her body became off-limits to me. In fact, she’d never been as desirable to me as she became soon after cutting me off. Her most mundane womanly gestures, sounds, and movements reacting with my hungry libido the way phosphorous reacts with water.

As I said:

“Perverse”.  

“Why is this a night of firsts?” I asked.

The fateful question.

I see that now.

Not that we wouldn’t have reached the stage it brought us to at some time or other; either then or shortly after; you understand? And, as I’ve already pointed out: the rot had set in long before. But, you’ll realise when you hear her reply; it was the enquiry paving the way for her to lay everything on the table.

Holding my eyes with complete confidence and -thinking back- spite, she told me:

“Because tonight…”

As she drew the sentence out I realised I was holding my breath, ears pricked:

“Because tonight,” she began again: “I cheated on you with another man.”

I’ve heard people say they felt as if they’d been kicked in the guts after hearing something shocking, and I now understand what they meant. I felt as if a size nine had driven itself into my solar plexus and, if I’d been groggy a few seconds ago, I was more than wide-awake now.

Even if I didn’t quite believe what I’d heard.

“That’s right,” she said. “Chrissy took me to a bar in town and we met a couple of guys.”

“You… You met a…”

“That’s right, loser…”

“Loser?”

“…A couple of guys. Young guys.”      

“But…”

“Young, good looking guys,” she overrode me.

“What the fuck are you saying?” I snarled, trying to assert myself, rising to my feet to stand over her, fists clenched.

“With big, thick, dicks,” she went on, untroubled by my menacing pose.

“Fuck, Fiona, if I find out you’re telling the truth I’ll…”

“Do nothing!” she spat, finishing my sentence in a way I hadn’t quite intended.

“I’ll do…?”

“Nothing.” she repeated as I stood above her in shock; my wife telling me she’d just gone behind my back with a couple of strangers and compounding the confession by informing me I’ll do noth…

“Because that’s pretty much what you are these days,” she carried on.

She made me wait for it:

“Nothing!”

I couldn’t believe she’d said it.

Me?

Nothing?

The same man she’d chased with such intensity?

Even when I was initially spoilt for choice and she wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list?

“Amazes me I could ever have thought you were anything more,” she added, thoughts, like mine it seemed, dipping backwards.

“Fiona,” I began, determined to put an end to her shit: “I’ve put up with a lot of crap from you this last year. I’ve lost my social life because of you and your friendship with the slut, and I’ve put up with your lack of support and snide comments over not being able to find another job. But… But…”

“Go on,” she dared me, totally unfazed.

Realising –an unusual flash of foresight this- that anger hadn’t been winning me many arguments with her lately I tried tacking to a different wind; hoping reason would stand a better chance of winning out in its place:

“Look,” I said, reining myself in, “if this is about you trying to put some spice back in our marriage because you thought I’d lost interest in…”

The laughter too impatient for me to finish came close to blowing me off my intended course before I’d left harbour even.

“Our ‘Marriage’, as you put it,” she began when she’d regained control of her hilarity, “is over.”

My stomach, I can find no other way of describing it, had found its way to my ankles.

Had she really just said that?

For the first time -though the evidence hadn’t exactly been keeping itself hidden- I realised just who had the most to lose from any break up.

And it wasn’t Fiona.

“At least,” she went on, giving me a little hope, “it’s over in the way you know it.”

“Fiona,” I began, persisting with the reasonable approach but, if I’m honest, more than a little scared, “this isn’t you.”

And that, you can be assured, I meant.

Sure, it was true; we’d had arguments in the past. And –as covered- the last year had seen a growing distance towards me on her part. But this was a Fiona I hadn’t seen before.

Cold.

Hard.

Implacable!

“What’s happened to us?” I asked, lowering myself to kneel beside her chair (a position, had I but known it, I would soon be expected to take on a regular basis).

“We were so happy not so long ago.”

Reaching out, I took her hand in mine, gratified when she didn’t snatch it away.

Progress.

Of sorts.

“That’s how I want it to be again,” I told her.

Was that a softening around the eyes I’d spotted?

“Come on, we’ve both had a hard time lately; what with you losing your mother and me losing my job it’s no surprise we’ve been at each others throats.”

I placed my other hand over hers and gave her my most sincere look; knowing the feelings I’d once felt for her had been compromised forever by her behaviour towards me. Unable to forgive her decision to go absent when I’d most needed her love and support to push me forward. Admitting to myself that my main motivation in regard of our relationship right then was no more than damage limitation.

Despite my perverse and rediscovered lust for her, you see; I knew the depth of what I’d once regarded: our “Spiritual connection” would never reach the same levels again.

Lust, of course, being something else again.

At least for this, run-of-the-mill, male hypocrite.

I’m certain you’re way ahead of me here, so forgive me if I state the obvious; but the attempts I was making to put our relationship on something like an even keel owed more to the fact it was her name on the deeds to the house and the no less relevant –not to mention sobering and terrifying- reality of my having neither money nor job.

Not the noblest of motivations but –at least until you’ve felt that kind of powerlessness and inability to manoeuvre- something you really shouldn’t judge.

At least not unless you wish to be judged yourse…

Sorry.

Blah, de blah, de bloody blah, as they say.

 

“Deep down though,” I continued; “and despite what’s been happening recently, I know we both love each other.”

There was a short silence then, as she appeared to think it over.

Until, finally:

“You do love me then?”

“Fiona,” I tutted, shaking my head; “why else would I still be here after…? After…?”

“After me being such a bitch to you?” she asked, finishing the sentence for me.

“Well, I wasn’t going to put it like that,” I said, manner that of the noble stoic bearing up under gross injustice. “But, you do have to admit, you’ve been a bit rough on me lately.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I couldn’t understand why you stayed myself – at first, anyway.”

This was more like it, I thought; these first signs of what I took to be contrition for her behaviour sparking some optimism in me; making me believe her statement about having cheated was no more than a way of getting my attention.

“I mean,” she went on; “why would a man take what I’ve been dishing out to you and still stay?”

“Because he loves you, perhaps?” I offered.

My lie not about to be bought.

“Oh, Martin,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “if I’m going to let you stay you’re going to have to start telling me the truth.”

“Let me stay?” I protested.  “But…”

A finger placed against my lips quietened me.

“No ‘Buts’ from now on, Martin,” she said. “And no more lies either. We both know why you stay and take whatever I give you. And it has nothing to do with love.”

Despite the restraining finger, I was about to refute this simple truth when she added:

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“That’s not true,” I whispered when she removed her finger and I was able once again to object.

She was already shaking her head:

“We went beyond love a long time ago – at least I did.”

Though the tone of the conversation was disturbing –to me anyway- Fiona, I noticed with dismay, seemed to be positively relishing it.

“You take what I’ve been dishing out to you because you’re a frightened little man and you have no choice.”

“You’re wrong, Fiona,” I protested. “I’ve just had some setbacks, is all. But I still love you and…” 

Again her finger shushed me – more forcefully this time, pressing my upper lip onto my lower and applying pressure.

The fact I simply allowed her to do it, I now see, giving her –if she needed it- some idea as to the extent of her hold over me.

“Now, Martin, what did I just tell you?” she asked, school-ma’am to infant. “Only honesty from now on. A new experience for you, I know, and it might be –will be- very uncomfortable for you. But that’s how it’s going to be because that’s the way I say it’s going to be. And, from now on, what I say goes.”

Not quite able to believe my ears, but knowing she was serious at one and the same time, I felt her finger again remove itself from my lips. This time though, I stayed silent, lost for a response.

If I’m to adopt the honesty she required of me back then –and still does- I have to confess I was aware, for the very first time, of her… Of her…

There’s no way to say it without sounding like the kind of wuss for whom I’d always professed such contempt.

Her…

“Power.”

There!

I’ve said it.

Kneeling at the side of her chair; an expanse of smooth and lightly tanned thigh staring up at me as she sat, legs crossed, watching her husband of ten years struggle to come to terms with what she was telling him; I felt a certain lassitude wash over me.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m no quitter. But the years of setbacks and trying to fight my way up again could do no less than have an effect on me. Sooner or later the ability to bounce must find itself lacking the elasticity required to rise above the next stumbling block.

Trust me, as one who knows about that of which he speaks: when that facility’s no longer available, and the next knock back comes calling, you truly are in big trouble.  

And this “Knock back”, I remember sensing, could prove to be the biggest knock back of all.

A suspicion Fiona would not prove wrong.

“I want you to listen to me carefully now, Martin,” she was telling me. “Because, make no mistake, if I don’t get the kind of response from you I’m looking for you’re out and our marriage is over.”

I made to rise from my knees and return to the sofa, thoughts a jumble and feeling as weak as a kitten, when she placed a hand on my shoulder to keep me in place.

“That’s alright. Just stay where you are,” she told me. “I want you close as I say this.”

Now it was her turn to take my hand and, suddenly, I felt a little more encouraged – despite the rather humbling position in which she insisted I remain.

For some reason –the touch of warm flesh upon mine, perhaps- I convinced myself something positive was about to take place between us.

What a prat!

“Just so you know where you stand with me,” she began, still clutching my hand, “I want you to know I don’t want you to leave.”

Optimism was growing with every word she uttered now; the impression I was about be on the end of some good news for a change getting stronger as my lassitude receded a little in the face of fresh hope and I gave her hand a squeeze.

You know? To let her know I didn’t want to leave either.

  

Like it was something she didn’t know already.

For “Prat”, read:  “Sap”.

“I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say without interrupting,” she told me.

Oh, I was and wouldn’t

Believe me.

“And, if you feel tempted to throw one of your hissy fits and leave before I’m finished,” she went on to warn me, “I’d like you to know, if you do, that I’ll want you packed and gone by tomorrow when I return from work.”

These certainly weren’t the conciliatory words my fledgling optimism had prepared me to hear but, with her warning in mind and still clutching her hand hopefully, I remained quiet and listened.

“And once you’ve gone,” she assured me in a voice sounding less reminiscent of the loving tones of a wife than the sound of a guillotine ending its descent, “you won’t be coming back.”

Hopes for a positive outcome a tad dented, I waited for what it was she wanted to tell me.

What I was to hear all but deprived me of the capacity to breathe.

And it would get worse…

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