Before We Talked

This is my entry for both the 750 Words and the Pink Orchid events. Thanks to Omenainen for organizing the event and for editing this!

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The rattling of the garage door opener heralds my husband's return from work. I beat him home today, but that's not surprising; I left work at lunch, because I needed to prepare.

I still need to prepare, but my preparations have shifted from the physical to the mental. I didn't want things to end up here, but he's left me no choice. So now I sit at our kitchen table, steeling myself for the conversation we're about to have.

It didn't need to be like this. It shouldn't be like this. But it is.

All afternoon, I've thought about how we got here. How we met, married, and fell deeply in love. Two kids followed. Things changed when they came along, but they had to, didn't they? I'd hoped things would change back after they went off to college, but they didn't.

God, the way we used to be. The people we used to be. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. But then we grew older, and it was hard to find quiet times to be together, and... yada yada yada. Same old story, told a hundred times over, in a hundred different ways.

The kids are out of the house now. They have been for three years. God knows I've tried to get us back. I dressed sexier for him. Got a gym membership and got my body back; he was, of course, too busy to accompany me. Tried to get him to go on date nights and to spice things up in the bedroom afterwards.

Nada.

Same old perfunctory foreplay, a few licks here and there, a couple minutes of pumping, and we were done. He was done, anyways.

It's not just the sex, either. It's intimacy, love, connection, everything.

He promised me he'd cut back on hours once the kids were in college, but that was a lie. I pleaded with him to go to counseling with me. I begged him to take the vacation he'd promised, the one where we planned to reconnect, but it was always "well, things are so busy this time of year..."

All year. Every year.

It's all bullshit. I know it is. He knows it is.

He built his company. It's seen us through many years of prosperity, and I'm profoundly grateful for it and him giving our family a good standard of living. I am. It's still just a business, though. He could sell it today, and we'd be able to live the rest of our lives off the proceeds. He could raise up that protégé he's been training for over a decade, cut him in a percentage, and let it go. That was the plan. At least, he promised that was the plan.

But no. Somewhere in there--I don't know exactly when--it became his lover. He promised he'd never cheat on me, but what do you call it when a man obsesses over something to the point where he'd rather make it happy than his wife? What do you call it when his wife's asking turns to nagging turns to pleading for more than a few scraps of his time?

I'm done asking. I'm done nagging. I'm done pleading. He's going to listen this time, and what happens after that is up to him.

So. Here I sit in my little black dress and my high heels. Here I sit to give him one last chance at me. Here I sit, ready to force his decision: me or his brick-and-mortar mistress.

Him, or the man from the gym who looks at me and sees me.

I want to choose my husband. I want him to choose me. But if he won't? I'll choose something else. I'll choose a new life. I deserve a life.

He enters the kitchen and looks me up and down. As his expression shifts over long moments, I think, 'If this is the end, how will he tell our story? Will he be fair to me? Will he admit his role in our demise? Or will he be the blameless hero, the victim of a faithless trollop and a scheming predator?'

He sneers with annoyance. I hide my sadness. I know how our story ends now, and it's not the way either of us wanted when we were those young kids, so deeply in love.

Masking my hurt, hiding the pain of rejection and broken promises, I speak loudly and clearly as I begin our end.

"Honey, we need to talk."

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"Where's the ending?!" I hear some of you cry. Why, it's all over Loving Wives; there are tons of "Honey, We Need To Talk" stories out there, so I figured it would be nice to let the wife have her say for once without filtering it through the aggrieved husband.

Speaking of women who don't get their due, did you know that the first story with this trope published on Literotica (at least as far as I've been able to find) was written by nici way back in 2007? Something We Have to Talk About has about 90% of the DNA of the trope all in one package, and it caused quite a stir back then. I kind of think of it as the "February Sucks" before "February Sucks," and it'd be nice if nici got the same kind of recognition for her contribution to the site. I'll be talking more about both stories and more in an upcoming essay, along with plagiarism, community, and a bunch of other stuff.

One more shout-out, while I'm at it. KitDeLuca164 wrote one of my favorite 750 word stories for the event last year in Prologue to a Problem, then followed it up with a continuation later in the year. She reliably tells LW stories from the wife's point of view, and often with endings that aren't necessarily happy and tied up in a bow; those choices often infuriate some readers, but I find her writing to be a breath of fresh air. Maybe you'll agree.

I took a little time off for the holidays, but my batteries are recharged, and I'm raring to go! Along with the aforementioned essay, I've got another one cooking on AI art and writing, along with stories in multiple categories partway finished. Watch this (and adjacent) spaces!

Also, in case you don't follow me and haven't seen my profile, I wanted to say I'm profoundly grateful for all the votes for Most Influential. I couldn't have won without y'all; hell, I wouldn't even have written nearly as much without your encouragement. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.