on_thecouch - Performance
In twenty-six years of marriage, things have changed. A little, a lot.
Sometimes Martha doesn’t notice it. She doesn’t typically have much to compare her marriage to. They’ve always been isolated. But since the miscarriage she’s been more perceptive. The two weeks she spent on a self-imposed bedrest, she thought about her life. The little things, the big things, the changes.
She’s satisfied with their sex life unless she thinks about it too much. Spotaneity is a casualty of marriage, she knows. Lately, nothing starts organically. It doesn’t even start until they’re already in bed, already under the covers. She’ll have a book in her hands, he’ll be watching the eleven o’clock news. He’ll touch her a certain way, and she’ll know. Or she’ll look at him that way she does, and he’s on it. The book gets tossed onto the nightstand, the television is switched off. And that’s that.
It’s the same every time. It’s always good, but it’s the same. After twenty-six years, he knows exactly what she likes, and vice versa. It’s easy, it’s predictable. It’s good, because they know each other so well that they never miss a beat, but it’s the same.
She has to wonder if, after twenty-six years, it’s possible for it to go any other way. They can’t un-know each other’s bodies, they can’t un-know what the other likes. It’s not an experiment anymore, it’s practiced and perfected, which is precisely why she’s loathe to complain.
It’s just…marriage.
Martha Kent
Smallville
246
Sometimes Martha doesn’t notice it. She doesn’t typically have much to compare her marriage to. They’ve always been isolated. But since the miscarriage she’s been more perceptive. The two weeks she spent on a self-imposed bedrest, she thought about her life. The little things, the big things, the changes.
She’s satisfied with their sex life unless she thinks about it too much. Spotaneity is a casualty of marriage, she knows. Lately, nothing starts organically. It doesn’t even start until they’re already in bed, already under the covers. She’ll have a book in her hands, he’ll be watching the eleven o’clock news. He’ll touch her a certain way, and she’ll know. Or she’ll look at him that way she does, and he’s on it. The book gets tossed onto the nightstand, the television is switched off. And that’s that.
It’s the same every time. It’s always good, but it’s the same. After twenty-six years, he knows exactly what she likes, and vice versa. It’s easy, it’s predictable. It’s good, because they know each other so well that they never miss a beat, but it’s the same.
She has to wonder if, after twenty-six years, it’s possible for it to go any other way. They can’t un-know each other’s bodies, they can’t un-know what the other likes. It’s not an experiment anymore, it’s practiced and perfected, which is precisely why she’s loathe to complain.
It’s just…marriage.
Martha Kent
Smallville
246