Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder--Unless We Get Divorced First

             My husband came down with a 102-degree fever and a cough. The minute that thermometer left his mouth, I left the room and haven’t been back since. He has been quarantined for five days. Aside from a few business trips that kept us apart, this is the longest we’ve gone without touching each other since we met.

              Now that we can’t be in the same room, I am so aware of how physical we are with each other; how much that makes us feel loved.

              He always likes to intertwine our hands, but his fingers are so bony it hurts, so I curl my fist inside his palm—our bizarre way of holding hands. We give each other friendly shoves to see who can get in the house first.  We sit on the couch: our thighs touching, or his feet on my lap, or his arm around me, or my head on his shoulder. He hooks a finger in my belt loop when I try to stand up, and pulls me back down to kiss me. I drape myself around him while he pays the bills on his laptop. He comes up behind me when I’m in the kitchen (always at the worst times!) when I’m stir-frying or taking hot things out of the oven, and he bites my ear or snuffles my neck, while I squirm out of his grasp, half-annoyed and half-turned on, shouting, “Hot stove! Hot stove!”

              Even in the car, we touch each other: he grabs my hand and puts it on the nape of his neck. Or he says, “Nobody’s checking me,” which means, “take your hand and fluff the hair on the back of my head.” When we sleep, we always find each other: back to back, toe to leg, an arm curled over a chest. He reaches out his hand to me in the morning when his alarm goes off at 5:30, a little squeeze on my shoulder before he leaves. But now there’s none of that. For at least nine more days.

              I miss him, but I am also supremely irritated by him now. I have become Beck-and-Call-Nurse-Waitress and I’m sick of it. I go up and down the stairs with water, popsicles, Tylenol, rice, pasta, salad, a hot water bottle, a fruit cup, tea, a thermos, more tea. I knock and run away. He leaves the dishes in the hall, and I put them in the dishwasher and scrub my hands like a surgeon. He asks for charging cables, books, a folding chair, a tv tray. I go up and down the stairs some more.

              When his fever was very high, he was kind and grateful and said, “Thank you, thank you, you’re so nice,” every time he heard me outside his door. But his fever broke on Sunday and now that he’s feeling better, he has turned sarcastic and demanding. When I ask how he’s feeling, he says, “How do you think I’m feeling?” as if I’m an idiot. He’s mad that we’re out of bananas and accused me of “poor planning”. He’s tired of being cooped up in one room. He’s tired of talking through the door and me saying, “WHAT?! WHAT?! Ok, Mumbles!” because I can’t make out what he’s saying. He’s tired of texting me, and me not responding because I left my phone in the other room and didn’t hear it ping. We are tired of each other. And the longer we don’t touch each other, the more we both stop caring.

              Through a closed door, I cannot see how cute he is; how his silly expressions always soften my anger and make me laugh, even when I don’t want to laugh. I can’t kiss the side of his neck, or stroke his bristly sideburns. I can’t smell his smell, which always reminds me of pencil shavings and hotel soap. I can’t put my head on his chest and cry.

              So many of our arguments, our temper tantrums, our fears and stress are resolved by our bodies. That “oh, come on,” nudge, raised eyebrows and sweet smile; that “you know you want a piece of this!” swagger that makes us giggle. We touch each other and it is all okay. We are okay.

              Nine…more…days.