25.5.2009


11






11

    You could say John and Violet's wedding night was traditional. Violet slept until well past ten. By then John had showered, fried bacon and eggs and made coffee. He had also laid the table and put a glass vase with roses on it. Then he went into Violet, kissed her and invited her to breakfast. She whisked into the shower, put on a light robe and went into the dining room.

    There were no signs that they were less than in love and happy the first days after the wedding, just as they had been when they were dating. Although, something bothered Violet.

    "Is anything wrong?" she asked one evening, a while later when he came home from work. They were out in the entryway. She wore a white blouse and a dark-blue skirt, and she had spent a long time making herself look nice before John came.

    "We have to talk," he said. She felt a twinge of fear.

    They had gone into the living room. She waited for John to begin. Then he said: "Violet, you know how much I love you, how I idolize you; you know that I worship you." He fell silent for a moment, then continued. "Our sex life just isn't working." He had stood up, and she had the feeling that he was angry. But also very sad. "You know, Violet, I've never known any woman who has as strong an effect on me sexually as you do. I adore you, not just as a person, but I also worship your body. When I look at you nude, or half-nude, I feel like I'm at a church service, and that I'm worshipping God." She had started to cry inside and looked at him where he stood and spoke.

    "It doesn't work, Violet. You don't know anything about this. You're lifeless, motionless, even without feeling." He raised his voice, "I think you just don't enjoy any of this. Sexually, you're dead as a stone. You're like a log."

    She said nothing; she had become cold, but she continued listening.

    "Sex is magnificent, perhaps the most important thing given us. Sex is not just a release or an act to induce orgasm." He had become angry, not just at her, but at himself. "If it was that way, you could just as well sleep with a stick of margarine." Then she was crying, and he stopped talking.

    He sat down next to her, put his arms around her and pressed her to him.

    "What can we do?" she asked. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

    He held her and pressed her to him. "Actually, yes," he said. "It's something we have to fix ourselves."