After An Affair, We Lived As Strangers For Eighteen Years—Until One Doctor’s Visit

even though it’s been months since he left. Sometimes, I look at the couch where he slept for eighteen years, and I ache desperately, painfully for the “roommate” who at least shared my air, who at least existed in the same physical space, who was at least there even if he wouldn’t speak to me or touch me or look at me with anything but coldness.

I continue reading …