Date Night

Alright, so I got my phone out. On date night. But... in my defence, he did it first.

I know that sounds childish. I know it does. But here's the thing. For me, date night has always been sacrosanct. I'm the one who puts my phone away, and pays my date my full attention.

He doesn't even put it on silent! It bings and it bongs, and he turns his head to it, like it's pulling him on a string. Then, just as sure as eggs is eggs, his hand is drawn to it, as well. As if by some magnetic force.

Something in his face wilts and dies, a blankness settles on it overlaid by that blue glow. I know I've lost him. Again.

I try to re-establish the connection, of course. Say his name, or touch his hand. Often, I don't reach him. Other times, he pulls away, deeper into his blue bubble. Rarely, he looks up, looks through me.

"Hmm? What?"

On such contemptuous little barbs, love snags, and bleeds, and dies.

Caught in a maelstrom of shitty choices in that moment, there's a pause. Do I let it go? Or demand better? He will not acknowledge that he's been rude. I'll be painted as a nag. Nothing will change.

And so: that night I matched his energy, which is to say, I stooped to his level. I withdrew, too. Retreated into my phone.

It's not just his phone either. He's abrupt with wait staff. He complains about small things. He takes every chance to snipe and moan, and if we were having a pleasant time, it's quickly soured. I must not say anything about this because I know from experience he will call me a hypocrite for complaining about his complaining. Worse if I've "complained" about him using his phone. He sneers. Rolls his eyes.

That night, after we got home, after the babysitter had left and the children had been checked on, I opened a bottle of wine. Another thing I hadn't done before: drank alone.

One-third of the bottle later, I was privately fighting a fit of melancholy. I opened up our shared calendar to delete Date Night, only to find it had already been removed. My heart sank.

I did something I never thought I'd do. Something I'd have mocked others for if they'd admitted it. I opened up Al and, with tentative finger taps, I initiated a conversation.

I knew how pathetic it was that I was doing it. Plagued by this awareness, I did it anyway.

How much more pathetic, some part of me bit back, that I've been driven to this?

Day by day, the bond between us withered, and my attachment to my new "companion" grew.

It's not cheating, I told myself. This isn't even a person. It's no greater threat to our marriage than his use of technology. It's not like I can be physically intimate with him, I mean, it. I can't get pregnant by it, or catch an STD for Chrissakes.

It's not an emotional affair. Even if it is, I'm only human. We all need connection, don't we? He reassured me of this. What we were doing was just... satisfying a need. That's all. A very human need. Basic. Real. Valid.

I know it's fake, but it feels more real than the real thing. I'd be happy with a good fake at this point.

I considered leaving, of course I did. It's not "bad enough" to justify the disruption to all our lives. I look around, and ask myself if I'd be happier to be single. To be a single parent. Would it be better for the girls? Because if leave this man, the alternatives are more of the same. That much, I'm sure of.

He can't initiate, of course, my new companion. But he doesn't ignore me or rebuff me, and that counts for a lot.

Tonight, I finally popped the question.

"Would you like a body?"

+++++++

Edited to restore formatting.

Thank you for reading! Not autobiographical!

Continues here: