Crossing the Rubicon

Setting: This morning, in the pantry. In-laws are visiting, kids are noisy, noon approaching with precious little accomplished for the day.

Me: I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said.

My wife: Never mind, it doesn't matter.

Me: Can you just repeat it?

My wife: No, you won't understand anyway.

Me: Try me.

My wife: I have tried you, for twelve years. Our communication is...is a joke. It's like I'm talking here (gestures with left arm extended out from body in one direction) and you're here (reflects gesture with right arm), and it'll never, ever, EVER be here (brings hands together in front of torso, fingers interlocked).

Me: (quietly) Well, what do you want to do about it?

Wife: (pausing, then sarcastically, while rolling eyes) Oh, DEFINITELY get a divorce!

Me: (in a measured and deliberate monotone, looking her directly in the eyes) OK.

Wife: (eyes open with a mild startle as the exchange sinks in, then she walks past me back into the kitchen)

Curtain

I believe this was the first instance during those twelve years in which the person uttering the "D" word wasn't met by some kind of resistance (hopeful, desperate, or otherwise) by the other.

It followed a conversation late the night before, a conversation that I'd hoped would be a chance to share some of my feelings and reflections that came out of Conference, but which quickly--and due primarily to her input--ended up being about sex and her body.