I created this blog about a year ago when I finished writing my manuscript.
Now my memoir is being released later this summer, and I’ve updated the design of this blog to make it easier to become a subscriber. So you won’t miss the launch!
Just add your email address (look — over to the left there), and click “Sign Me Up!”
You’ll be among the first to hear about the release of “The Percussionist’s Wife: A Memoir of Sex, Crime & Betrayal.”
Need a bite to whet your whistle? Check this out …
I don’t remember, exactly, when we stopped making love, but it was definitely before we stopped having sex.
Then we stopped having sex, too.
We started out as fabulous lovers and unfortunate roommates, and we progressed into being unfortunate lovers and fabulous roommates. The progression was slow and quiet and secret, and I didn’t even realize it was happening until it was much too late. Unsatisfying. Unfixable. Unredeemable.
What I do remember is the mostly empty bottle of whiskey on the kitchen countertop after I returned from a long work weekend away in San Francisco. We usually only had liquor in the house when we were entertaining, and I didn’t know Steve had had a guest over in my absence. While I was enjoying perfectly poached eggs delivered by room service and feeling like a very important person because I was staying by myself as the keynote speaker in a suite with a dining room table for eight, Steve was keeping himself occupied by seducing one of his students over a drink and a toke and making out with her. Or maybe having sex with her, but I don’t know. Certainly, he wasn’t making love with her.
I didn’t suspect any of this when I saw the whiskey sitting out on the otherwise pristine kitchen counter, the only evidence that anything out of the ordinary had happened that weekend. The couch pillows had been fluffed, the odor of a burnt joint waved away, the bed made. I thought maybe he was dousing his loneliness in alcohol like his father often did, and that worried me because I didn’t want to be married to an alcoholic. But I didn’t worry about what I should have suspected. It never dawned on me that what he was doing that weekend while I was away would eventually culminate into my being married to a sex offender. Who expects that?