His grunts are soft and rhythmically uninspired, like a metronome stuck on one bland, forgettable beat.



Up. Down. Repeat. No surprises. No fire.



Just the gentle thud of mediocrity between my thighs.



I moan, purely out of obligation. Not convincingly—I don’t even try that hard anymore.



He never notices. His hand is gripping the pillow instead of me.



He mutters something between groans—“God, you feel so good.”



I blink slowly. But I don’t say anything. I never do.



He finishes with a sharp exhale, hips jerking once, then stilling as he comes.



Just the sound of his body rolling off mine and the immediate flick of his thumb across his phone screen...



————————



Isabel



The ceiling has a crack that looks like a lightning bolt. I stare at it while Andrew thrusts into me with all the excitement of someone reading spreadsheet formulas aloud. His grunts are soft and rhythmically uninspired, like a metronome stuck on one bland, forgettable beat. Up. Down. Repeat. No surprises. No fire. Just the gentle thud of mediocrity between my thighs.



I moan, purely out of obligation. Not convincingly—I don’t even try that hard anymore. He never notices. I’ve perfected the art of sounding vaguely breathless while counting the groceries I need to pick up later; Almond milk. Eggs. Tampons.



His hand is gripping the pillow instead of me. My legs are spread, my body compliant, but I feel like an empty shell on autopilot, making all the right sounds, lying in all the right positions, while my mind floats somewhere above the room.



He mutters something between groans—“God, you feel so good.”



I blink slowly. I bet he says that to every woman who doesn’t make him stop mid-thrust and ask;



“Wait, are you even into this?”



But I don’t say anything. I never do. He finishes with a sharp exhale, hips jerking once, then stilling as he comes. No hands to my thighs. No fingers between my legs. No follow-up questions. Just the sound of his body rolling off mine and the immediate flick of his thumb across his phone screen.



Classy.



“wtf,” he says casually.



“That was amazing. You’re just… unreal.”



I hum a noncommittal sound, already pulling the sheet over my stomach. He’s glowing like he just discovered fire. I feel like a lightly used hotel towel.



He props himself up on one elbow, phone still in hand, scrolling while trying to sound affectionate.



“Hey, so there’s this charity event in the Hamptons in a couple weeks. My mom’s thing. She said she’s sending you an invite.”



My eyes flick over to the nightstand clock. 7:02 PM. I should’ve said I had an early morning.



“Mm,” I answer, then force a small smile.



“That sounds nice.”



He’s already half-dressed, pants slung low on his hips as he stands and stretches, his phone still glued to his hand.



“You wanna get dinner tomorrow night? That new place downtown with the fusion thing—Thai or Mediterranean or whatever. I told Jason we’d check it out.”



“Sure,” I say, sliding out from under the covers. My voice is flat even to my own ears. He doesn’t notice.



“Cool,” he says, looking at his reflection in the dresser mirror and adjusting his hair.



“You’re the best.”



Andrew leaves with a quick peck on my cheek and the smell of overpriced cologne still lingering in the sheets. I open the windows—twice.



I walk barefoot across the hardwood floor into the bathroom. The lights are too bright. I squint into the mirror and stare at my reflection—the faint smudge of mascara under one eye, the flush in my cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal.



I look….untouched.



Like someone who’s been going through the motions so long, she doesn’t remember what it feels like to actually want something. I lean forward, sighing as I pull my hair back. My skin’s still warm, but not from him.



Not from anything.



I fix my hair and touch up my makeup. My top holds my boobs just right, and my jeans are snug enough to feel human again. I smear on a pink gloss that says, I put in just enough effort to look like I didn’t care. It’s a delicate art.



By the time I slide into the booth at Westpoint Bar, Jenny’s already sipping a spicy margarita with a single jalapeño floating at the top like a threat. Kimberly waves both arms when she sees me, then shimmies over so I can slide in beside her.



“God, finally,” Jenny says, grinning.



“We were about to send a search party.”



“I almost bailed,” I admit, slinging my purse off and tossing it on the bench.



“Sexually-deprived ghost of myself, you know how it is.”



Kimberly cackles.



“Ooooh, was it date night with Mr. Vanilla again?”



“More like date night with a plank of wood and a WiFi addiction.”



Jenny nearly chokes on her drink.



“Still checking his phone during banging?”



“Still calling it banging?” I deadpan, flagging the waitress for a gin and tonic.



Kimberly leans forward, lips twitching.



“Okay, scale of one to ten. How bad was it?”



I exhale and rest my chin on my palm.



“Imagine a dryer cycle. Gentle tumble. No heat.”



Jenny slaps the table. “Stop. That’s cruel.”



“No, it’s accurate.” I laugh, but the sound is tired.



“He was moaning like he was starring in his own movie, meanwhile I was mentally filing my taxes and wondering if I left the oven on.”



Kimberly cringes. “Did he even try to—?”



“Nope. Didn’t even look down.” I sip my drink as it arrives.



“Finished, praised himself, and rolled off like he deserved a medal.”



Jenny shakes her head.



“That man has the libido of a privileged house cat.”



I raise my glass. “To house cats!”



We all clink.



“So…” Jenny starts, dragging out the word with the kind of tone that means something’s coming.



“I had a second interview with this wellness company in Los Angeles. Big move, but… I don’t know, I’m thinking about it.”



I blink. “Wait. LA? You didn’t tell me you were looking out of state.”



“I wasn’t, really,” she says, eyes lighting up.



“But the job's insane. Creative team lead, full benefits, and it’s remote full-time. They’re growing fast. Think Goop but with less crystal yoni eggs.”



Kimberly snorts. “God, thank you.”



Jenny leans in, looking at me like she’s trying to shake something loose.



“Iz, you’re twenty-four. Your love life should at least be exciting and whimsical. Like, aren’t these guys supposed to be in their sexual prime in their mid to late twenties?”



I laugh. “Apparently Andrew missed the memo.”



Jenny grins. “Seriously though—you’ve got the résumé of a thirty-five-year-old exec. Brand development, startup scaling, investor presentations… I’ve seen you turn ideas into million-dollar pitches.”



Kimberly nods.



“You basically helped that skincare line last fall with duct tape and charm.”



I shrug, but I feel the buzz of it, deep down. The part of me that still wants something bigger.



“I don’t know. Lately, I feel like I’ve been playing it safe. Waiting for things to click, but they never really do.”



Jenny watches me carefully.



“You could come with me. I mean… if Andrew’s not anchoring you.”



Kimberly nods slowly.



“Honestly, babe, he’s not exactly giving dream husband energy.”



I trace the rim of my glass with my finger.



“We’ve been together almost two years. And I still have no idea what he actually wants to do with his life. Every time I ask, he says something vague like ‘strategy consulting’ or ‘taking time to reassess.’”



“Translation: sitting on his trust fund and pretending to be busy,” Kimberly mutters.



I laugh. It’s not funny. But it is.



“He’s got the name. The house. The dinner reservations. But he’s like… empty. He floats through life thinking being born into money is enough to make him interesting.”



Jenny tilts her head. “And you?”



“I fake orgasms twice a week, scroll Zillow listings just to imagine my own house, and fantasize more about quiet than I do about love. My life is definitely not a fairytale.” I shrug.



“So yeah. I think I’m tired.”



They’re both quiet for a second. Kimberly reaches over and grabs my hand.



“You haven’t been happy in a long time.”



Jenny squeezes my knee under the table.



“You deserve more. The right kind of more. Fairytale or not.”



I nod. “I’m really starting to believe that.”



The restaurant is candlelit and overpriced, tucked between two art galleries on the edge of SoHo. The kind of place Andrew likes to be seen—velvet banquettes, curated wine list, waiters who speak in whispers. I already hate the menu. It’s all foam and tiny vegetables stacked like Jenga.



He orders for both of us without asking.



“The sea bass for her,” he tells the waiter, glancing at me with that charming, politician-smile he always pulls out when he wants to seem thoughtful.



I say nothing. Just fold the napkin in my lap and sip my wine.



Halfway through the appetizer, I finally speak.



“Do you even know how I like my fish?”



Andrew looks up, fork mid-air.



“What?”



I rest my elbow on the table, watching him.



“Do you know? Or did you just guess?”



He sets the fork down.



“Isabel, it’s grilled sea bass. It’s not exactly controversial.”



“It’s not about the fish,” I murmur.



His jaw flexes, barely. “Okay. So what is it about?”



I let the silence stretch before I answer.



“It’s about the fact that you make decisions for me without asking. Like I’m part of the furniture. Like I’m just… here.”



He frowns. “Where is this coming from?”



I lean forward, lowering my voice.



“Andrew, I’m trying to talk to you. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t feel seen. Or heard. Or cared for, beyond what I look like on your arm.”



His brow furrows like he’s doing long division in his head.



“Is this about last night?”



I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Straight to banging.”



“Well, if that’s what this is about—”



“It’s not just about banging,” I snap.



“But since you brought it up—yes. That too.”



He sits back in the booth, arms crossed.



“I make you come all the time. You literally scream my name.”



I nearly choke on my wine. I set the glass down and blink at him.



“Andrew…I fake it.”



His face goes blank.



“Every time,” I say, calmly.



“For months.”



He opens his mouth, then closes it.



“You don’t touch me. You don’t see me. You roll off and check your phone before I even catch my breath—except I never have to, because you’ve never once asked if I’m okay. Or satisfied. Or anything.”



The color rises in his neck. “You’re being unfair.”



“I’m being honest.”



“You’re acting like I’m the bad guy for not reading your mind.”



“No,” I say slowly.



“I’m calling you out for not even trying.”



He exhales harshly, eyes sharp now.



“This is what it’s always about with you, isn’t it? Everything’s never enough. You’re never satisfied unless you’re in control.”



I blink. “You think this is about control?”



“You want some big movie moment. Fireworks and declarations and whatever you see on Netflix, and when it’s not like that, you spiral.”



I feel the heat in my chest, the steady hum of fury.



“I don’t need fireworks. I need presence. Effort. Intimacy that’s not scheduled like a gym session.”



He laughs bitterly, but there’s no humor in it.



“You’re the one who made this about banging.”



“I made it about banging because it’s the only time you pretend to care about me.”



He narrows his eyes slightly, tone turning defensive.



“So what is this then? A fight? A guilt trip? Or are you actually trying to break up with me?”



I don’t flinch. “Wtf, Andrew—I’m trying to tell you what I need.”



He stands abruptly, napkin falling to the floor.



“You know what? Maybe we do need a break. Because clearly nothing I do is ever enough for you.”



“I never said I needed everything,” I say, quieter now.



“I just needed you. To show up. To ask me how I’m feeling. To look at me.”



He tosses some cash on the table.



“Fine. Time apart. Enjoy your solo drama.”



And just like that, he walks out, leaving the scent of arrogance and resentment in his wake. I sit back against the booth, heart pounding but oddly… calm.



The waiter returns with our entrées. He glances at the empty side of the booth.



“Should I box this one?”



I shake my head and reach for my wine.



“No. I think I’ll just finish mine.”



And for the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m pretending.





My husband Andrew thrusts into me with all the excitement of someone reading spreadsheet formulas aloud.