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Days before the COVID-19 outbreak came to our borders, we had a bitter exchange, flinging words at each other as though they were dirty rags. We barely spoke in the following two days. For the next three weeks, while the country stocked up on liquid soap and hand sanitiser, our conversations were transactional, stripped of the casualness and intimacy of a layered relationship. We spoke short and sharp, covering the logistics of running a household, not discussing the pleasures of living in a home. By the time school was cancelled and the kids became our constant companions, we had become frozen in the standoff.

Frigid.

The type of word that can sink a soul. The word that had started it. The word that diminished the smoothness of my skin, the slight bump of a stomach after three children, my size 10 curves.

That’s how he described me. Or that’s what he accused me of being.

“Why have you become so fucking frigid?”

I heard something else. My heart pounded in my ears as I battled how to defend myself or explain myself. Everything became cloudy. Bombarded by the word, confused by the build-up that had brought us to this point.

Then my brain took over and calmed me, told me to be rational and to use the part of my body that wouldn’t let me down. I took a deep breath and walked out of the room, calling that I would be back in a minute. He stormed after me.

“That’s the problem, you don’t want to talk!”

“I just need a second to … breathe!”

I took a long sip of wine, letting the pale, yellow liquid slide down my throat. I looked across the lawn, the rich green deepened by the sunset. The purple bougainvillea was tinged peach from the sun ending the day. Birds flitted in and out of the trees as they settled down for the night, their voices excited and urgent, melodies coursing and fading. Sundowners during lockdown were dull. I missed the company of friends who dropped by to share the moments that wrecked or elevated their day and listen to my stories. We’d had a couple of video calls, each person with their drink beside them, but the screen absorbed the ambiance and spark we had come to enjoy. I needed to hear the subtleties in the tones of their voices. I needed to see the sparkle in their eyes and be able to clap their hands in laughter.

Inside, I heard my three children banging and bashing in whichever new world they had created. I heard a small body thump against the couch and imagined cushions bouncing off his little limbs. Three distinct shrieks of laughter erupted from their bellies. My smile came easily, and for a short moment, I was happy. I soaked up their joy. It filled the dark cavity that was becoming crowded with doubt and anger.

When the bass of his baritone sounded, I heard the children’s game end. Without looking, I knew they were rearranging themselves and becoming more orderly. Their imaginary world evaporated. A soundtrack swelled from the television and soon, all I could hear was the action from the current screening. Their imaginary enemies fading away.

It was only after his voice disappeared into the faraway rooms of the house did I notice I was holding my breath. 

I released it. 

I picked at the skin around my fingernails, punishing my cuticles for being on my hands. If I didn’t say anything we would spend another long night in battle. A quiet dinner of talking to the kids to communicate to each other. Tangential comments about our plans for the next day. They hadn’t noticed that we were not as we were before.

I lay back against pillows and sighed. It was quiet. I’d been having unusually quiet nights of sleep since that night. He didn’t sleep beside me, gently rumbling our bed with each breath. That pleasure was now for the boys, sleeping in their room. It was an endless slumber party for them in that room. He carefully kept the ruse that it was a game or that he’d mistakenly fallen asleep. I hated the blankness beside me. It terrified me. The thought that he wouldn’t be back to fill it. What if this was the beginning of the end for us?

The lockdown helped me analyse why we had the fight. Solitude ushered in silence and quietened the harsh words I had for myself. I thought through the fifteen years of him. The moments that made me swell with love and those that tore me apart with anger. The times I buried myself in insecurity. But we stood together through it all. Until now.

Increasing financial demands of children. New hobbies and interests they were starting to enjoy. One career advancing ahead of the other. Friends competing for social time. The fierce glare of a community that had seen him rise, grow and stagnate. Infuriating jealousy over the return of long-time friends. Retired parents struggling with their health. 

It was enough to blow any couple apart. We were not able to cling to each other through it all. Some days we needed to be apart to come back together. But this was not like those days.

Then I decided. If frigid was the last straw, then it would be the way back. It would be what brought us out of this perdition.

I would give. Give more than before. Fifteen years of sacrifice, and I told myself that I would give even more. It was the only way.

I wasn’t shy and virtuous when we married. He wasn’t my first, but I enjoyed being with him more than the two others. There were times when sex with him was fiercely hot, appetites barely satiated. Then we had times of lingering, gentle desire. Like any long relationship, there were moments when the habit of intimacy ticked a box, but I never doubted that his eyes remained on me.

I sniffled and blinked away the tears that threatened to expose me to the boys. Mummy crying would lead to a list of questions, though I’d welcome their fidgety cuddles; touch had become a stranger in my home. Had I been so consumed with my own tiredness and mundaneness these last few months that I didn’t satisfy him? That word was a problem years in the making. It hadn’t been birthed in the pandemic. What had he expressed that I hadn’t heard? What was he holding onto that clung to his heart? Was he unable to share something? Why? And when did he give up on me, relenting to that word?

When the delivery boy dropped off my package, I was afraid to touch it. I hadn’t been afraid to order the luxurious pieces it contained, but now I felt foolish and vulnerable. I had envisioned myself tucked into the elegant lingerie, lying in an alluring position against the pillows when he walked in. The reality in our bedroom was so different to the seductive vision in my head. 

My plan was to write him a note to entice him. I had to write because there was no occasion for us to speak with the rift getting in the way. That afternoon, I called Lisa for saucy lines to write him. She always flaunted the raunchy talk she and Daliso shared, making the rest of us cringe and roll over in embarrassment. She had a skill I admired but could never execute. We came up with All of me has always been for you. Always to enjoy.

I sent the text after supper when he was watching old Premier League highlights and the kids were settling in for bed so they wouldn’t distract him. After freshening up, I changed into the chemise set, dimmed the lights and waited, growing nervous, feeling idiotic and dreading that it wasn’t enough. Grand gestures terrified me. They demanded courage in the face of possible rejection. They left everything on the line. They were too big. But this was also too big. This wasn’t about me.

He finally came in, commented that I looked nice and lay beside me. Not breaking eye contact for a couple of minutes. The piercing, beautiful darkness of his eyes snatched my breath. He didn’t take my hand as an offer of intimacy and comfort as he’d done before. I only had his eyes to be my bridge. But his penetrating look disarmed me. What did he see?

When he finally kissed me, the reconciliation was not what I expected. Hungry, but distant. Yearning yet holding back. Wanting but not forgiving.

It was a beginning. Maybe. With him asleep and snoring, I tortured myself about what was happening in his mind. Were we on the way to how we’d been? Or would we awake new and broken?