You were cranky about having to drink your Diet Coke on ice, allegedly a direct consequence of my failure to restock the fridge after taking the last cold one. The Discovery Channel narrator droned on over the sounds of your aggressive crunching while your metallic glares lanced the side of my skull.

We were in our penultimate days then—that stage where we were still in marital counselling with the social worker with the hooker boots and every one of my failings was a metaphor for something sinister. This transgression with the soda would have represented My Complete and Utter Selfishness or maybe even My Lack of Regard for You as a Human Being.

The program explained that every single communication male crickets aim towards females is for the solitary goal of mating. “See? That’s why I get so annoyed about those gym dudes of yours,” I said. “And about your schmuck boss calling at all hours.”

Your sigh betrayed that you heard me.

I wasn’t sure if you were hoping I would respond by apologizing for my entire being when you shook your head sadly at hearing how a sizeable percentage of male crickets attract female partners by deceitfully mimicking the songs of higher status mates.

“It’s your birthday this weekend,” you said, once the program ended. Our sixth time celebrating it together, I realized.

“You still haven’t told me what you want. Unless you are still interested in… What you requested last year.”

Maybe you had discussed it with Counsellor Hooker Boots in your private sessions. You were always diligent about the “homework” she assigned. If I told you I had changed my mind, that would undoubtedly have been evidence of Me Shutting You Out.

 

We met up at the Naughty Secrets store after work. Unlike the other couples tittering and pawing each other, we approached our shopping like house-flipping contractors.

“This one seems to be decent quality,” you said, strumming the product bearing a tag proclaiming it the dildo harness of choice for some kielbasa-lipped porn actress.

“I’d rather not get a pink one.”

You scowled, saying it should be your choice if you were the one expected to wear it and that this was just another example of How I Make Everything About Me.

“Can’t we just get a neutral colour? Since it’s literally for my birthday.”

We settled on black after you refused to consider white, complaining it would make you look like a trussed-up pink pork roast.

I selected an attachment with a pleasing girth.

“No. That’s huge. This one makes more sense,” you said, knocking my pick out of my hands and replacing it with a diminutive one.

When I complained there was no point in going ahead if it was going to be that small, you rolled your eyes. “Once again, this is You Always Having to Learn the Hard Way.”

I contemplated saying that two can play the metaphor game and finding out how much you liked being told that this dispute was representative of The Way You Never Support My Dreams.

The clerk placed our negotiated selections in one of their telltale opaque black plastic bags: “Big plans for the weekend?”

 

My birthday night arrived. You were in a great mood for someone who had been called in at the last minute to work all Saturday morning.

After we gulped down whiskey sours, we moved onto Chablis. You toasted my birthday, your alcohol-induced rosacea blooming all the way to your cleavage.

You cackled at being presented with your favourite dishes of chicken piccata and asparagus risotto: “This absolutely reminds me of that cricket documentary! You know, the way the males present food to secure that hot lady cricket action…”

You hadn’t been this jovial when it was just us in a long time.

“So now my risotto is being compared to a bolus of goo,” I said.

“For God’s sake, I’m not insulting your cooking.” Then: “At least I’m getting to finish my food before we get down to business.”

Down to business. Down to a final gesture where you can say afterwards that you really extended yourself. I imagined you repeating the story someday over pillow talk with your douchebag boss or whoever. I could hear it now: you tried so hard but I had An Emptiness That Could Never Be Filled.

“What’s wrong?” you asked. “I wasn’t the only one that cracked up when they showed the male cricket going to town in the lady cricket’s cavity while she chewed away at protein goo.”

I forced a smile, even as I imagined you using my back as a table, chomping your way through my pathetic food offering, completely indifferent to the rhythm of our pelvic motions.

“Be glad you only had to cook!” you said. “Remember—some of the lady crickets literally devour their mates… Gnaw at their hind wings…” Then, giggling and thwacking my shoulder: “Gorge on their protein-concentrated limbs…”

“Yes,” I said, reaching for my wine glass. “Then move on to more impressive mates, when the first ones have nothing left to offer.”

You gave me a look then as I gulped my Chablis. I didn’t press to determine if it was more quizzical, guilty or sad.