Like We Used To

The idea has been playing on my mind all day. Looping over and over, ever since I'd seen the couple on the tube. It wasn't even late, like 6, 6.30 maybe, but they were all over each other; hands exploring new territories begging to be conquered. I'd attempted to exchange knowing glances with those around me - young love, eh? Huh! But people kept themselves to themselves, burying their faces in phone admin.

So it was just me who'd noticed them. I tried to stop noticing, reading adverts for crypto or vitabiotics or some other legal scam, but my eyes kept flitting over. To their little whispers and giggles and furtive looks to see if anyone was watching. I'd averted my gaze as quickly and nonchalantly as I could. Who, me? But they didn't give a shit about me, only each other. They couldn't wait to get home, tear each other's clothes off without caring to preserve the integrity of the fabrics, throw each other onto the bed, the sofa, the kitchen sideboard, devouring their tastes and their sensations. All five senses alive and ecstatic with every moment.

Was I jealous? Probably. When you've been with a partner for twelve years there's not much more to discover. The flags have been planted and the territory claimed. 

I could still remember when we were like that. Our first night together I couldn't sleep for the adrenaline coursing through me, just watching her breathe and relishing every mini-snore and snuffle. Now I have developed a pretty decent technique for her snoring, and no doubt she has for mine. Perhaps lust has been replaced with romance, but what is romance when extracted from lust? Certainly the songs and the books and the movies speak to the power of first flushes, the yearning of time spent apart, the insanity of it all. No-one wrote a sonnet about the day-to-day hard work of putting the hours in to keep romance going. 

Fuck balls, I almost missed my stop. 

Little visuals in extreme close up flashed into my mind as I trudged through the rain on the oh-so-familiar route home. His hand slipping her bra strap off her shoulder. My hand on her waist for the first time as I pulled her urgently into me. Her little giggle as she whispered something unspeakable into his ear, to his clear delight. The moment when she looked into my eyes as her tongue danced on the tip. 

I shook my head, turned up the podcast I was ignoring, took out my keys in preparation.

At one point arriving home may have been met by negligee, or wine uncorked, or simply a full throated snog and a declaration that she'd missed me. 

But I know now what to expect as soon as I open the door, because it's bath night, and it's seven o'clock. Which means I'm washing up. 

However the scene that greets me is one of utter delight. The dog's over the moon, like I've been gone for ten weeks instead of ten hours, though she's like this when I've been gone for ten minutes, too. The first excited cry of Daddy comes from my son, and for a moment I'm annoyed at myself for my solipsistic nostalgia trip, and I revel in his attention. Life is just different now, I remind myself, and relief washes over me as the stresses of the day disappear with him. My daughter's a little older, so is keen to take things in her stride - she's got dolls to play with, don't you know. 

"Hey, did you pick up the–"

"Shit, sorry, I'll–"

"Ugh, don't bother, I'll do something else."

"OK, sorry, I could–"

"No, it's fine, go run the bath for them"

"OK, sorry"

They'd eaten already, so I trundle upstairs, spin the taps, pour in the bubble bath, and flip out my phone while I wait.  

I hover over reddit - it's NSFW section sorely tempting - but what was I gonna do with that now? Better to wait til later. But as I absent-mindedly scroll through arguments and hottakes and snark my mind sneaks back to the couple on the tube, and my fantasies as to what they must be up to now. Perhaps deep in the midst of an epic session of experimentation and reward, the joy of discovery; perhaps rolling over in post-orgasmic bliss; perhaps lightly touching each other's skin as they gear up for round two. 

Oh jesus, the bloody thing's almost overflowing. I've got to get a handle on this. 

I call them up, wrangle them out of clothes and onto toilets, shampoo and soap and sponges. 

She's sorting clothes next door and I can tell I just need to leave her to it a moment. We're a team, we always say. At times we're a tag team, and this is clearly one of those, so I do my part. 

I'm strategising here, and only semi-consciously, biding my time for the opportune moment. This, perhaps, is the parental version of flirting, giving each other just enough space to separate yourself from the identity of the sexless parent and something closer to being an individual person with needs and desires. 

Their giggles and splashes snap me back to the present and they're out and into towels, but I've forgotten to rinse her hair so she's leaning back over the bath and I'm wrangling the shower and contorting myself to avoid getting wet and this is the position I'm in when she walks in and she laughs. Her big, generous, warm hug of a laugh. I flash my sheepish face and she offers a hand to help which I gratefully accept. I long ago gave up any attempt at suave and instead focussed on making her laugh and smile. And it appears to have broken the spell of the day for her, and for the first time she seems glad to see me. 

Thank you, I say, as I towel myself off, and she kisses me quickly, tenderly, and the sparks flash through me once again, just as they did twelve years ago outside the bar. She still does it for me. 

But first, admin.

Stories and cuddles and teeth and tuck-ins, followed by dinner and work debriefs and washing up and future diary alignments. It's not the rejection that kills you it's the routine. 

We finally slump on the sofa, 14-hour day complete. I know I've got about an hour before she's dozing on me, and I'm back to strategising. I toy with finding a movie or TV show with some sexual content to try to stir something or instigate a conversation, but she chooses a sitcom she's watched a thousand times because it's one of those days and before I know it she's lying on me and my laughs are rocking her to sleep. 

I watch her. The rise and fall of her chest as she dozes on mine. The little snuffles and mini-snores as she slips deeper into sleep. I wonder what she's dreaming about - is it me? Does she dream about how it used to be, or of how it's going to be? I'm reminded of that first night together, when I watched her just like this, rapturous with delight and anticipation of the wild sex life we were about to enjoy. Sometimes I wish we were that couple again, but as she relaxes into me, safe and secure in my embrace, excitement of discovery has evolved into tenderness and reliability. 

Perhaps we've found something deeper. But I know what we need to do - we need a break from routine. We need an injection of spontaneity, of surprise, of danger. And we will. When diaries align and we can book the babysitter. 

So until then, I finish the sitcom, wake her gently, lead her upstairs. And as I brush my teeth I notice the tampon packet newly opened and I sigh and remind myself to mark this date on the calendar, so that next time I'm horny after seeing a frisky couple on the tube I can check to see if it's worth getting so worked up about, and just enjoy my life as it is.