Repulsed By My Every Touch
Language: en
Ten years into our marriage, Madeline developed what she called a "sanctuary protocol." It started with the small things—a performance of boundaries. If I accidentally took a sip from her water glass, she’d watch me with a look of quiet localized horror before taking the glass to the kitchen and running the dishwasher. My touch was banned from her silk sleepwear; they had to be handled only by the staff at a specific organic dry cleaner. Even our bed was a demilitarized zone. We had separate duvets, separate pillows, and an invisible line drawn down the center of the mattress that I was…