Wednesday, November 30, 11:45 PM. Amy.

I can’t stand this any more. I have to do something. But I don’t know what.

Lately I’ve been feeling differently toward Brewer. It’s a feeling that’s been growing over the last few months. I’m not sure I can explain it.

It comes to me sometimes as jealousy—jealousy toward the kids. Brewer will spend the day out with Garrett on some errand, and I’ll think, “Why doesn’t he ask me to do that? He wants to spend time with Garrett but not me.” Or he’ll be tickling Trevor and Claire on the floor and I’ll think, “He used to tickle and tease me like that. He doesn’t touch me like he used to.”

Sometimes it comes to me like it did tonight, as daydreams and wishes. I showered tonight and put on perfume and a nice nighty. I got in bed before he did and lay reading while he got ready, but my eyes were on him. While he was showering I imagined what might happen when he was done. It was an elaborate image, involving far more flowers and floating candles than we actually have in the house at the moment, but I thought some parts of it might come true. Then he came to bed, toweling off his hair, virtually stumbling from exhaustion. He’s always been in good shape, but these last few months have sculpted him strong and lean. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.

He let the towel drop, flopped onto the bed and—I kid you not—was snoring literally before he hit the pillow, by half a second or so. I actually poked his back with my finger, but he snored on. I slapped the bedspread, partly in rage, partly hoping it’d wake him up. It didn’t. So I went back to my book. It didn’t help.

So here I am, almost at midnight, panting after my husband of seventeen years as if he were the narcoleptic bridegroom and I the blushing bride.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

It’s such a long time since I let myself say that, let myself feel it. And now it scares me. But I can’t hold it in.

Does he love me back?

It’s so hard to know. Loving him is like loving a bullet. He’s tough, and efficient, and powerful, but cold and smooth and changeless and unstoppable. He rarely looks at me, or touches me. We talk, but in fits and spurts. We’re always too busy, with the kids, the farm, the horses, the solar cells, the cooking. Is that because he doesn’t love me and wants to keep his distance? Or is it because, with all his vast competency, he’s an incompetent lover who simply forgets to reach out, to smile at me, to make time for me?

This is not a new problem. It was this coldness that lost my love. I almost wish I could go back to not caring, to not wanting his attention.

But I want it, damn it. I need it. I need him to love me.

What am I going to do?

I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to snuggle up next to him closer and closer until he can’t help but wake up and notice me. Then we’ll see what he does about that.