I realized by the end of our second class, that climbing was an independent sport. Myra and I got along better when we didn’t interact with one another. She became friends with the twentysomethings, and they accepted her based on her natural bouldering talent. They also avoided me, so I stayed close to Sally the instructor. I had devolved suddenly into my childhood self—fat, awkward; physically hopeless.
Myra and I fought during the car ride home. She criticized me for my neurotic behavior and I criticized her for being such a bitch.
“You’re not supposed to analyze every single detail,” she said. “You’re just supposed to get into it. Have fun with it. You were really getting on Sally’s nerves, too.”
“I was just asking questions,” I said. “Isn’t that what the instructor is there for? To ask her questions and learn something? Christ, who placed the hair across your ass?”
“I don’t appreciate that language directed at me,” Myra said. “You’re doing it again. Just like Brooke said. You’re focusing all your frustrations on me. That’s very passive aggressive behavior.”
Brooke was the marriage therapist. “This isn’t junior high, Myra,” I said. “You can’t treat me like one of your students.”
At home, we ordered from Ping’s, and ate our dinner in separate rooms. I fell asleep on the couch in front of the television and woke with a start. I found Myra asleep in bedroom, with a jar of licorice men set between her legs.
Despite the abundance of our health benefits, Myra always opted for a more holistic approach to solving her anxieties. She sprayed lavender on our pillows and smeared a lemon slice across her forehead—tips gathered from New Age magazines to help promote sleep. I was allergic to the spray and in the summertime, the lemons attracted flies. So she turned to herbal teas, warm milk, red wine and licorice men. Her favorite candy and private obsession was the black licorice, shaped like tiny men with eyes made of confectionary sugar. The licorice men were a rare commodity—found only at a confectionary downtown called Adorjio’s. They were expensive and bitter to the taste, but Myra kept a full jar of them on her nightstand. I ignored these quirks, satisfied that she didn’t need lavish retreats to Peru or Switzerland, like some men’s wives I knew.
I stripped off my clothing and crawled into bed, naked and eager. Myra wore long floral nightgowns to hide her lumpy figure. She was ashamed of her body, in the same way I was ashamed of my condition. I placed the licorice men on the nightstand and woke her. She regarded me calmly, but recoiled at my touch.
I was used to her rejection. Myra did not come into our marriage with an appetite for sex. She blamed it on menopause; her first marriage, but I knew better. We were only together six years, but in that time, something eroded between us. I apologized—I always seemed to be apologizing for my condition—and offered to pleasure her instead.
Myra didn’t look at me when she spoke. “Marjie knows this acupuncturist. She says he might be able to help.”
“You told Marjie?” I said. “About me?”
“Marjie has known for years,” Myra said. “She’s my best friend.”
I wanted to deck her, but instead, I retreated from the bedroom. She didn’t stop me from leaving.
I sat at my laptop and Googled her name—Luminita Latcu—and learned that she shared her last name with a Romanian poet. I discovered that she once belonged to a band that toured Canada; that in the past year, she headlined a few local shows in Chicago. I had a desperate need to see her girlhood face, but soon gave up and surrendered to bed.
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