My name is Linda.
I was sixty years old when I first realized that I no longer recognized the woman staring back at me in the mirror.
It wasn’t because my hair had turned gray.
It wasn’t because of the wrinkles on my face.
I simply no longer felt desirable.
Robert and I had been married for thirty-seven years. He wasn’t a bad husband. Quite the opposite. He was caring, loyal, and had always been there for our family.
But over the last few years, something had slowly disappeared from our marriage.
Passion.
At first, I tried to bring it back.
One evening, I bought new lingerie especially for him. Dark red—the kind of thing I hadn’t worn in more than twenty years.
I let my hair down.
I put on makeup.
I sprayed on the perfume Robert used to love when we were younger.
I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, and for the first time in months, I thought:
Maybe I can still surprise him.
Robert was sitting in bed watching television.
I walked into the bedroom and stood in front of him.
He looked up.
For one second, his eyes rested on me.
My heart was pounding.
Then he said,
“Aren’t you cold?”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The room is chilly. Put something on, Linda.”
Then he turned his attention back to the television.
I stood there in that expensive red lingerie wishing the floor would open beneath me.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door.
For a long time, I stared at my reflection.
That was the first night I wondered:
Maybe Robert isn’t the problem. Maybe I’m simply not that woman anymore.
A few weeks later, I tried again.
I made a romantic dinner.
Candles.
Wine.
I walked over to him, kissed him, and tried to remind him of the years when he couldn’t even pass me in the kitchen without pulling me close.
Robert simply kissed my forehead.
“I’m tired, sweetheart. Tomorrow.”
But that “tomorrow” never came.
