Physiological Aversion
Language: en
After ten years of marriage, my husband entered a “sensitive period for order.” I picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks, and he saw it, rising to get a new pair from the kitchen. His discarded pajamas were off-limits to me; they could only go to a specific dry cleaner. Our bed was divided in half—pillows, blankets, even the direction of my breath couldn’t cross the boundary. Today, he didn’t touch the breakfast I’d prepared again. The toast was golden-brown, the fried egg perfectly runny, just how he liked it, and the milk was warmed to fifty degrees. But he didn’t even glance at…