I was determined not to see Bertha last night for reasons you could imagine. So I rented a porno and pulled all my window shades down and was all set to spend a quiet evening with just me and Little Harlan.

I changed my mind.

I used to have this notion that I was completely in charge of what I do. My body is a steamship and I’m the captain. The longer I live, the more I think my body is a flotilla, and I’m a frightened passenger clutching a fake steering wheel on the deck of one of the ships, wondering where we’re going and why the hell we don’t turn away from those rocks up ahead (aft). All I can do is shout and spin the wheel. Sometimes the ships turns. And sometimes it doesn’t.

Bertha was expecting me. And here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s healthy to have sex when there are so many issues to sort out, even when neither person says a single word during the encounter.

When I left, I felt emptier than I would have felt if I’d watched the porno.

Our relationship is dying. I need to feel loved again. I know how futile it is for me to talk through issues in person, so I’m going to spend the rest of the day composing the most beautiful love letter ever written.