After Thora and David agreed to work things out, they sat at the kitchen table and shared lists of grievances. Thora’s was short:
1) You’re not always the most understanding.
2) Sometimes you say inappropriate things in front of my parents.

“And I want to break up with you,” David said.

Thora shook her head, “Yeah, but we’re only supposed to write down behaviours we can control. That’s what I meant. We write down behaviours that need to change, and we try to change them. What did you say?”

David handed over his list, which read:
1) We need more intimate time.
2) I do 70% of the cleaning.
3) You’re not spontaneous enough.
4) I don’t feel it anymore.

Thora set the paper on the table and said, “Ok, the first three are good, but I can’t exactly control the last one. Unless you’re saying it’s caused by those first three factors. Also, you can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

“But it’s a major grievance of mine.”

“But I can’t control it.”

“How’s this?”

He scribbled: 4) Your need for control all the time.

He gave his broad, reassuring smile that, until recently, had always looked like security. “Ok, so now let’s come up with a plan for how we can address our grievances.”

“Well, you could do the dishes you left yesterday.” He gestured at her lone cereal bowl.

“Good. We’ll make a cleaning schedule.”

A pained expression puckered his face. “And the intimacy?”

She looked at her chipped toe nails. “I know.”

David pursed his thin lips and said very quietly, “I don’t know if I’m attracted to you anymore.”

This was something Thora both heard and did not hear because it could not possibly be true. She was skinny, blond, and pretty with a tiny ski-slope nose—everyone was attracted to her. David’s attraction especially had always been straightforward, frictionless. Almost embarrassingly so—she simply said the word “sex” and colour rose to his cheeks. David had preppy brown hair, and an earnest, loyal face that reminded her of a Labrador. Until recently, she had felt safe with him—safe to have sex, but also safe to refuse—as if their relationship had evolved beyond all that. And since her appetites were fickle, almost seasonal, she had refused often. But maybe she had taken it—him—for granted.

The next day Thora came home with two books. One was a sex guide, the other was called The Dance of Connection. She washed the dishes and mopped the floor, then sat in their orange sunroom overlooking the park and began the exercises in the sex book. The first asked her to write down everything that turned her on. To orgasm, she had to imagine sex with a dozen men. She had never dared tell David and could not bring herself to write it down. Instead she put:
-Having my nipples sucked.
-Cunnilingus.
-Back rubs.
-Being tickled with a feather.

When David came home they sat at the kitchen table. She gave him the Dance of Connection. “You can read this one. I’ll read the other.”

David turned the book over a few times and set it down without opening it. He rubbed his neck and said, “There’s something I want to talk about.” He folded his hands. “I was thinking. It might be best if I stayed at a friend’s place during the week. A guy from my program. He’s got an in-law suite. The commute’s killing me. It’ll be better.”

David’s graduate program was in Waterloo, while Thora’s was in Hamilton. When they were accepted to different grad schools, they had decided to remain in Hamilton because it was an easier, known quantity.

“You want to move out?”

“No, no, silly. I’d stay here from Thursday through the weekend.” He patted her hand. “I’ve been so tired lately. I think that’s a lot of it.”

“I thought you liked the bus.”

“I do, but it’s too much. We can get some space. It’ll help. We can date again.”

“I don’t want to date again.”

“You know what I mean.” He flattened a pucker on her shirt.

Thora did not see how further separation would help them work things out, but kept it to herself.

That evening, after dinner, she told him there was an exercise they needed to do from the book. David paused, looked up from his phone. Thora mustered a sexy smile, but felt ridiculous. She clarified, “We have to have sex.”

His cheeks flushed, like she had said something very naughty. “Of course, missus.”

They went into the bedroom and undressed at opposite sides of the neat bed, as they always had. Thora watched David pull his green wool sweater and grey t-shirt over his head, unbuckle his brown belt. He was the skinniest man she had ever slept with. “Like a cancer patient,” he had joked once when she’d run her finger along the top of his ribs. She loved his skinniness. Its non-threatening angles.

Instead of lying side-by-side, as usual, Thora climbed on top. David’s eyes widened in a question she could not bear to answer.

Sex-wise, top was the worst. She hated the way her breasts yanked up and down, hated the expectation to ride and holler like a pornstar cowgirl. But the book had instructed her to do one thing that made her uncomfortable. Thora looked at the white wall and shoved David’s penis inside her. She sat all the way up, resting her fingertips lightly on his chest. David held her hips and moved in a stiff back and forth. Each thrust stung like paper cuts. She worried about bladder infections, and after a few minutes she climbed off and went back to their usual routine of light touching and oral sex. When she was close, she imagined David holding her wrists over her head while three men and a big breasted woman fucked her. Afterwards, he touched her cheek and whispered, “That was great, missus.”

On Sunday, David packed essential clothes and toiletries in a large hiking pack.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” he said, and kissed her three times on the cheek.

From the sunroom window, she watched him walk through the park behind their house until he vanished on the other side.

The house made small cracking sounds. She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. Straightened a neat pile of thesis notes. She surveyed the empty chairs, the full bookcases, the spider plant that clung to the walls, and felt a terrible stillness.

She remembered David wanted her to clean more, so she got the mop and did the floors. Then the baseboards, then the refrigerator. Their apartment, a two-bedroom on the second floor of a Victorian, was the most elegant place Thora had ever lived. No more shared clammy bedroom, no more dingy mattress on the floor. David had saved her from all that. They had filled the apartment with books and plants. But now, with David gone, she noticed there were no photos, no keepsakes, no concrete evidence of their relationship at all.

By Tuesday the house was spotless, but no routine coalesced. Unless crying all the time counted. Anything could do it—the sight of a book they had both read, his tattered slippers at the front door. She worked on her thesis for hours at a stretch, but otherwise, she could not orchestrate her own domestic rhythms. One night she slept at 9, then the next at 4 am. She kept looking for David in the other room, only to remember all over again.

She saved up thoughts to share with him later, but then, at night, they scattered like slips of paper in the wind. More troublesome was how in her head, everything came out as “we.” “We need more bread.” “We need to call the plumber.”

First thing after breakfast every day, whenever that might be, she tried a new activity in her book. One day it was breathing from her belly, another rocking her pelvis back and forth to “unfreeze the area.” Even though it all seemed so New Age, she discovered that her breathing had, in fact, been shallow, that her pelvis had, in fact, been frozen, and that, in fact, she had been walking around for years feeling like she had no body at all. Her material existence theoretical rather than concrete, like a phantom limb.

When he returned on Thursday, she watched him walk through the park behind their apartment, under the lights of the football field. He was easy to spot from far away. His buttoned-up collar, his careful steps, still arms held by his sides, made him seem to float rather than walk—so unlike everyone else. So gentle.

They kissed three times on the cheeks, as they always had. “Hello missus.” It was a good sign that he still called her missus.

Crinkles spidered around his eyes. “Something smells yummy.” It had taken most of the afternoon to cook nut stew and corn bread. David’s favourite.

They discussed their days over dinner. Thora found she could gather those lost slips easily with David around.

Dizzy with conversation and food, feeling complete and whole for the first time in days, she said, almost breathlessly, “We could hike to Webster’s Falls this weekend.”

He did not look up from his stew. “I don’t think I can. I have to finish a paper.”

“Oh come, on. Just a couple hours in the morning?”

He rested his spoon on the bowl’s edge. Straightened his mouth into a thin line. “I’m a little stressed about it.”

“Ok, sure.” She sipped from her spoon. She had wanted to re-enact their first date. They had made fast, furtive love under a limestone ledge near the falls. Neither of them had come, but it had been exciting to do something so dangerous.

After supper, Thora did the dishes. David's bowl sat half full of soggy vegetables. She put the leftovers in the fridge.

“Did you notice I took out the trash and did the dishes?”

He stood and re-tucked his shirt. “I did indeed. Well done, missus.” He kissed her scalp.

To make herself right for sex she brushed her teeth and washed between her legs. David curled on the couch, bent over his laptop, a Facebook messenger window open in the corner.

Thora sneaked the can of whipped cream into their room, stripped off her clothes, sprawled on the bed, and sprayed a bikini on herself.

“David, can you help me with something in here?”

“One sec. I’m in the middle of something.”

A fly circled the room. It dived onto her body and tickled, but Thora remained still and pristine. After a time, the cream started to run down her skin and onto the sheets. “David? Are you coming?”

“Can you just hang on? I’m chatting with somebody from the program. It’s important.”

David thought shouting across the apartment was trashy, so she didn’t insist. She lay there like a stiff plastic doll, feeling the whipped cream spread across her vulva. The sheets would need to be washed. She imagined herself shouting, “Screw this,” and storming out. Throwing his clothes at him, getting really fucking angry for once, telling him to get the hell out because she was through playing games. But that was for a different kind of woman. The kind of woman she might have become had she not found David.

By the time David entered the bedroom, the whipped cream had pretty much disappeared. Only her aureoles were fully covered; her bottoms had flattened into a thick milky sludge.

“Oh, missus.” He looked down at her, a slight sag in his clean-shaven jaw.

“I thought it would be fun,” she said. “Spontaneous.”

She propped herself up on her elbows because she felt embarrassed sprawled on her back like a slab cake. A splodge of cream slumped off her breast into her belly button.

David handed her a towel and undressed. She loved how he rescued things, smoothed out the rough notes.

When they finished, the bed was sticky and Thora’s hair was a wreck. David rolled into her. Buried his face into her armpit, draped his arm across her breasts. “Thanks, missus,” he said, pushing himself up off the bed. He did not make eye contact.

They showered together in the narrow glass stall, business like, politely passing the shampoo and soap. Thora was careful with her elbows. A month ago they would have jostled merrily, knocking arms into teeth, accidentally goosing each other, making jokes about how it’s best not to drop the soap.

The next morning, before David left for Waterloo, he packed more books and clothes. Thora watched him secret his coin collection inside his front pocket.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oh, just some things for school.”

“Your coin collection?”

“My prof wants to see the Irish coins. That’s all.”

When he left, she watched him glide across the park until he vanished at the back.

Wednesday morning, the book instructed her to do something called a body scan, which involved paying attention to each body part, one by one. She lay down on the bare hardwood, closed her eyes, and focused on the tips of her toes. Neutral. She worked her way up to her ankles, keeping the sensation of her whole body in mind as she went. Her calves felt snug inside her jeans. Her hips ached. Her stomach, hollow. Surprisingly, her nipples felt numb. The book had warned about such a possibility. She concentrated, but they were like hard bits of mute rubber attached to the ends of her breasts. She rubbed and pulled and felt only pain—none of the good things she supposed she was meant to feel. The book had said to visualize warm light flooding any numb spots. Two imaginary beams of sunshine bore down on her bare breasts, until, eventually, her nipples tingled. They felt good, like hands warming after coming in from the cold. Where had she been all these years? It was like she’d been walking around as only one half of a whole person. She wished David were here now, so they could do it again.

The next morning, after she finished an exercise from the book, she stared at the ceiling thinking of their old walks to Webster’s Falls. The conversation had flowed with their steps and her body had filled with clean air and possibility. In those early days they’d often gone on little adventures—they’d head out first thing, a vague destination in mind, then see what the day brought them. There was always something new; some small corner of the Bruce Trail, some hidden waterfall, a ledge they’d never encountered. Always, they’d return home refreshed and hungry for each other.

She gathered the garbage and brought the cans out front. The book had told her to “Pay attention to all sensation, then let it disperse. Don’t hold on to pleasurable feelings.” The sun warmed her skin in small, pleasant pinpricks and when she let the feeling go, it didn’t vanish but rather expanded through her limbs. She’d have to tell David.

A neighbour, a young man with a shaved head and muscles so prominent veins popped out of his neck, sat on a ripped grey lawn sofa smoking a cigarette and holding a coffee mug that said, “Fuckin’ Eh!” He looked her up and down, taking in her body. He looked like every guy she’d ever gone to school with, like every cousin and uncle and ex-boyfriend.

If David were there he would comment about the neighbour’s black muscle shirt or ripped black jogging pants. His joke about Hamiltonians in their natural habitat. Thora would have laughed, shame wedged in the high notes.

Out of nowhere, Thora had the urge to tell this man she wasn’t really like this—she was not the kind of woman who wore this boxy Patagonia sweater and these suburban khakis. There was another side to her—another version that had split off in a different direction. But instead she only smiled uninvitingly.

At noon, her phone rang. It was David, telling her he had too much work and couldn’t make it back that night. A woman’s voice called out over the screech of guitar rock.

“Where are you?”

“Meeting with classmates.”

“At the bar?”

“It’s awful. I got dragged out for a drink. Anyway, sorry. Nothing I can do. Group project.”

“The whole weekend?”

“Sorry, missus. I’ll make it up to you next week. Promise.”

When she hung up, the silence in the house throbbed. She opened the fridge to figure out lunch. Grey mold grew on top of the leftover stew. She slopped it into the toilet, flushed it down.

The empty, David-less day spread out before her, and she couldn’t stand the thought of being home alone. It made her feel only partly formed. Her neck hurt and a headache bloomed behind her eye. “Check in with yourself as often as you can, especially in times of stress,” the book had said, and she suddenly realized all her muscles were tight, except for one spot in her left calf. And maybe her earlobes.

She tied up her hiking shoes and headed out to Webster’s Falls.

The next day, she opened the sex book and did her exercises in the living room. It said to notice the sensations in her naked body and to “trust her feelings.” She spread a towel, drew the curtain, and stripped. Stretched out, eyes closed, she felt the rough terrycloth, and how slight movements of air cooled her skin. An image of the neighbour floated up. Of him taking her by the hips and pulling her into him, lifting her with his thick arms, pressing her against a wall, covering her whole body with his own until they were one round creature with four arms and four legs.

“Am I interrupting?”

She had not heard David come in.

“You’re back.” Her voice shook.

“We finished. And you seemed upset, so.” He smiled down at her. His blue plaid shirt was buttoned to the top and tucked into his baggy jeans. He looked so wholesome standing above her, like a dad, that she felt very naked and cold. She drew her knees and sat up.

“No, I was just. It’s one of the exercises.” She pointed to the book on the floor.

He frowned and nodded.

“You know, I couldn’t feel my nipples until the other day.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, his cheeks pinking.

Last week, Thora would have looked away and changed the subject, but the new Thora said, “You want to help me with that?” It was a stupid thing to say, but David pulled her up off the floor and pressed himself against her hip.

They went into the bedroom and instead of efficiently taking off their own clothes, Thora slid her hand up David’s chest and pulled his sweater over his head. She pressed against him and licked his ear. He went still and tight, releasing a small moan. When David touched the small of her back, every nerve crackled. Without thinking, she breathed into her belly, scanned her body, and let go. Everything—from her jaw to her toes to the small hairs on her arms—tingled. Even her joints loosened. David’s face focused, grew serious. His eyes lost their soft Labrador look. He lifted her shirt and pushed her against the wall. She did not weigh her moves and suddenly she was running into the kitchen, looking over her shoulder, laughing. She bent over the table and David pulled down her pants. He pressed his hand into her back and pushed himself inside. It did not sting, it hummed. She pressed her cheek against the cool wood. Everything vibrated. She pictured the neighbour standing over them, jerking off in a steady up and down, but she felt only David, right there, as if his body were her own.

After they both came (Thora several times), Thora laughed and laughed. Who knew it could be so good. They’d discovered a whole other class of sex that she had not known.

They went back to the bedroom and climbed into bed because it seemed like the right thing to do.

“That was,” he paused, folded his hands on his naked chest, “different.”

“I know. I had no idea,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. “Who knew it could be so good?”

He nodded blandly. “Good. Yes.” He reached for his phone. “But, you know, I don’t need all that.”

“All what?”

“The extras. Sex was already great. There just wasn’t enough of it.”

Her legs went cold. She pulled up the sheet and crossed her arms.

He scrolled through Twitter.

“I saw you,” she said.

He nodded and continued scrolling.

“With her. I saw you guys together. On the couch.”

He tilted his phone away. “What are you talking about?”

It was true. She had seen them. A month before their big relationship talk, Thora had come home while David was having sex with another woman on the couch. The woman had been straddling David, rocking back and forth, back and forth. But they had not been unbridled, they had not been fucking. No. His hands were on the girl’s cheeks. And hers were wrapped in his hair. And they’d made a calming, sane movement with their eyes wide open. Still half-dressed, as if they hadn’t had enough time to take it all off.

Birthday cake from a party, wrapped in napkins, sat inside Thora’s purse. She’d pictured herself throwing it, but David and the girl were still rocking. Thora had not been seen. She pulled the door quietly behind her.

She had circled the block over and over watching her breath fog under the orange streetlights. She felt no jealousy. No bitter pang. Only an alertness, like a slap.

When the apartment lights had gone out, she snuck in. David slept alone in their bed, his pale back curled away from the door, his thin hairy legs tangled in the white sheets. Thora undressed silently and tucked herself inside his body’s question mark.

In the weeks that followed, Thora had found it easy to pretend she hadn’t seen them. In a strange way, it had become something she had both seen and not seen, like the unchosen ending in a Choose Your Own Adventure. Each evening, when David came home, his bright, skinny face still opened for her, he still gave three quick kisses on the cheek, still said, “Tell me everything, missus,” and dropped his backpack at the kitchen door. They still set the table, still ate together. They still sat on the couch, he still cracked jokes, still made her laugh harder than anyone ever had, still spooned her in bed, thin arms squeezing her to sleep. Their love as good as ever.

She’d forget about it. It hadn’t been a decision. Rather, she’d relented to inertia and allowed days to tick by without confrontation. They had a good life. Stable, more than she dared wish for. Why ruin it over a bit of sex? By the time he’d broken up with her, Thora had almost forgotten it entirely.

Tomorrow, she knew, David would pack more books, more clothes, more of his coin collection. He would glide across the park, and she would both see and not see him leave her, again and again. All those unchosen, infinite versions of her life. She closed her eyes and scanned her body and felt all of those four phantom arms, those four phantom legs.

Elaine van der Geld is a feminist writer whose work has been published in Kenyon Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, the Ploughshares blog, Grain, The Normal School, CV2, Hippocampus, and elsewhere. She has received a 'notable essay' mention in Best American Essays 2020, and has been a finalist for both the Room and EVENT creative non-fiction contests. She holds an MA in English, and an MFA from UBC. You can find her at elainevandergeld.com

Image by Charlie Foster @charliefoster