My Wife Can’t Desire Me Anymore—And I’m Still Here Waiting

We Used to Be a Movie

Lydia’s shift started at 6:30 AM, which meant she was out of the house by five. Always quiet in the mornings. Always brushing her hair in the hallway mirror like she was going somewhere elegant, not just the ferry. She still looked like a painting, even in that faded blue uniform. Hair tucked into her cap. Eyes like the tide before sunrise.

I remember when we used to have sex before breakfast. Or at least laugh, touch, fight over cereal. Now it’s just: kettle on, no words, door click. I don’t blame her. I just... don't know where she went.

The Ferry Keeps Her

Lydia’s job changed her. Or maybe it just revealed what she’d been carrying the whole time. She liked the water. Said it made her feel anchored, ironically. But she came home emptier. Not tired—just... hollow, like someone who had been carved out to make room for something else.

“Rough day?” I’d ask, every damn evening.

She'd hum. That was her thing. Humming instead of answering. Like she was saving her voice for someone else. I’d watch her sit at the edge of the couch, not really watching the TV. Just staring at it. Hands in her lap. Perfect posture. Too perfect. Like a porcelain doll who hadn’t been touched in years.

You know, I tried. God knows I tried. Candles, dinner, that weekend in Port Townsend. She smiled at the right moments, even kissed me like it was in the script. But it wasn’t her. Not the Lydia I married. That Lydia had heat. Fire. Now? She was all mist and gentle breezes.

The Things We Don’t Say

I asked her once, “Do you still want me?”

She blinked slow, like I’d asked her what time it was on the moon. “Of course I do,” she said. Then, quieter: “You’re my husband.”

That’s not what I meant. Want. Desire. She didn’t say it. Couldn’t say it. I think she’s afraid of it, even. Or maybe something in her broke a long time ago, and neither of us ever noticed until the silence started to echo.

The nights were the worst. Her back to me in bed. She'd mumble in her sleep sometimes. Not nightmares, just... fragmented phrases. Like “Hold the rope” or “Starboard side.” Maritime junk. But never me. Never my name. Never us.

I stopped touching her. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I couldn’t handle the way her body went still. Like she was bracing for something. Like I was a wave she didn’t want to crash into.

That Tuesday Morning

It was raining. Lightly. The kind of rain that makes you nostalgic for things that never even happened. I drove her to the docks because her car wouldn’t start. She sat beside me, hands wrapped around a travel mug. Her fingers were pale.

“You know I love you, right?” she said. Out of nowhere.

I looked over. Her face didn’t move. Still staring ahead, at the sleepy harbor lights.

“I know,” I said. But it was a lie.

When we pulled up to the terminal, she didn’t get out right away. Just sat there.

“I can’t... feel it the way you do,” she whispered. “I want to. I try. But it’s like... I’m locked outside myself.”

I didn’t say anything. Because what the hell do you say to that?

“I see the couples kissing in their cars before boarding,” she went on. “And I feel like I’m watching another species. Like I missed the part where everyone else learned how to... want.”

I reached over, held her hand. Cold. Still.

She didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I nodded.

She got out of the car, walked toward the ferry. Back straight. Step steady. Like always.

And that was that.

We don’t always get the love we want. Sometimes we get the love someone can give. And we either learn to live with it—or we leave.

I’m still here. Maybe that says more about me than it does about Lydia. But I figure: if she’s still trying—hell, I can too.

At least until the tide turns.