Elegantly Disheveled

I rolled off of her after I finished. I didn’t care if she did or not. She didn’t even pretend anymore. I guess it had pretty much come to that. She’d straddle me while I watched TV, I’d get the hint, I’d fuck her. That was it. She would lie there with a face of hope and a body of rigid malaise, accepting it to convince herself that everything was fine and normal like a happy, healthy couple. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be normal; and God help us if we weren’t normal.

A happy, healthy couple, in love. Something we became not. There wasn’t love any more. Sex was no longer an act of desire. It developed into a simple routine convention; a requisite clichéd act because it only happened for the sake of it happening - not for the satisfying delivery and reception of emotionally driven carnality. And I hated that.

The first two paragraphs of a short story I wrote a long time ago.