Prologue [excerpt]

I lived in the attic of an old Victorian house where a man, who wasn’t my husband, was in charge. In the evenings,  the man would call me down to the bedroom. I felt nothing, just resignation, because I had no choice in the matter. I sat in my room—waiting—knowing—that when the man called, I would go.

Another dream about The Handmaid’s Tale. That’s what I get for binging on the show three nights in a row. After viewing the first few episodes of season one, I had resisted watching any more. That was three years ago. Last weekend, when a writer friend shared their enthusiasm for the upcoming season, I thought I should give it another try—this time without Bill, my husband. After years of watching everything side by side, we had started watching shows separately. In a sense we were drifting into separate cinematic universes—like the Marvel comic characters, but, in our case, I wasn’t sure our universes would ever converge again.

Alone in the living room, our Yorkshire Terrier puppy curled up next to me, I could hear Bill through the study door, laughing at some comedy special. Starting The Handmaid series at the beginning, I consumed one episode after another. As I rushed each evening to clean up the dinner dishes and take my place on the love seat I used to share with Bill, I realized I looked forward to this new routine—just me, my puppy, and June Osborn.

Tonight, after watching two episodes, and just a show shy of the season one finale, I was tempted to watch one more. Instead, I went to the door of Bill’s bedroom and stood there silently. How I hated this moment. Against my husband's wishes, I started sleeping in the room across the hall. That was a year ago. After six months of "nuptial bliss," I had to escape the marriage bed. I blamed it on the snoring--also a problem--it allowed me to skirt the real issue. For the next year Bill vented moral outrage not only with me, but with the therapists, the male friends, and family. With each telling it became clear that my lack of sleep and its negative toll on my health and my disposition didn’t matter. On the contrary, you’d think it was a crime. No one outwardly supported my decision or disputed Bill's rights to my body.

Now, every night my husband waited and I felt obligated. If I went to my room without knocking on Bill's door first, Bill inevitably knocked on mine with renewed indignation—“I can’t believe you didn’t come by for a cuddle.”

"I'm very tired. I need to go bed." I didn't know what else to say. 

Bill would stand at my door for a moment, look at me as if pondering something, then walk away cursing under the breath.  

Tonight, since it had been a few days, I thought I had better make an appearance. I knocked lightly, then went inside. Bill was in bed, head propped against a pillow, a New Yorker folded in  hand. Setting aside a pair of reading glasses and the magazine, my husband exclaimed, as if surprised. “MarMar!” With a big smile, Bill scooted to the edge of the king size mattress. “You want to get in bed with me?” Lifting the blankets in a familiar gesture, Bill indicated excitement in a tone that tone was almost childish.

“Let’s snuggle.” 

My body went rigid. Against my wishes, I lay down on my back, stiff as a board and placed my head on the pillow, my hands crossed over my chest. I must have looked like a mummy or better yet, Willa, in that famous scene from The Night of the Hunter.

Bill hugged me with too much force. Every inch of Bill's body, head to toe, squirmed with excitement, physically bombarding me. 

Putting forth my hand, I gestured to Bill to slow down, “Please slow the pace, you’re overwhelming me.”

Seeming not to hear me, Bill placed an eye next to mine. Staring into my face, as if viewing a specimen under a magnifying glass, Bill asked, “Do you want a massage?”

My heart sank. No, not this again. “I don’t feel like it.”

Still in a childish tone, Bill's voice on the upswing. “Why not, it will feel really good. Come on, let me give you a massage.” 

Bill climbed on top of me. Obviously aroused, my husband frenetically pressed against me. When Bill tried to turn me over onto my stomach to loosen my clothes from behind, I spoke up.

“I don’t want a massage. It’s not you, I just don’t feel well.” That wasn’t the real reason. “I don’t want to have sex right now.”
  

Showing zero lack of concern for my needs or feelings, Bill pulled away with a face turned dark. “What’s the point of having a marriage then?”  

I sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, knowing that no matter what I said next, it would not go well. I tried anyway, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not fair. You ignored me all day. So now, I don’t feel comfortable. This night time routine doesn’t feel like loving intimacy.”

Then the insults came… “Why did you marry me? Because you couldn’t pay your rent? So you and your daughter could eat my food?” 

Bill left out the fact that a week ago Emma, my teenage daughter, had moved a boxful of clothes and belongings to Abe's place, refusing to return because it no longer felt comfortable in Bill’s house.

I got up and quietly left the room.

Bill followed, visibly angry. “You know there’s something wrong with you, don’t you? My therapist and I know, but I can’t say because you can’t handle the truth.” Everything Bill knew about me became a weapon in the hands of the one man I desperately wanted to trust.

I asked Bill to stop, “That’s not true! My therapist says this language is abusive.” 

Bill's face twisted in reply. “Your therapist is inept. What does she know?”

My body started shaking. I didn’t want to take the bait…it would only descend into the same awful madness, which would leave me despairing and desperate. I started spiraling anyway. How did I end up here? Trapped. Why? Why did I let this happen, again?

**To continue reading, please purchase full access***

All characters and their particulars found in the book Pillow Talk are based in reality, but do not correspond with actual persons, places, or events.