The Ad Man

I have not been sleeping very well recently. If I get five hours sleep I feel lucky, two or three hours has been the norm for the past month. We argued again last night; well it was more a disagreement than an argument, but we do seem to be having more disagreements these days. I have nothing more to give her. Since we got married love seems to have faded slowly away. This beautiful woman lying next to me used to fill my mind, my soul and my heart. Here she is breathing peacefully and uttering sexy little grunts in her sleep, but the grunts are not for me. Her back is towards me; she never faces me any more. If I want a hug I wrap my arms around her and press myself against her. My hands fall naturally on her breasts and if she is in a good mood she will let me caress them. If she isn't, I get sent packing. There is no point in me opening my eyes; the room is in complete darkness. The bedroom balcony looks out over the sea; the only light outside is that from the moon. The sea this morning lies lifeless and light less. The only sounds are from the street cleaner at the front of the apartment, the first tramcar is rolling passed and the wild dogs are knocking over the trashcans behind the restaurants down on the corniche. It must be 2.30am. My mind is fully activated, my body still fired with passion, with lust, with desire and I have nowhere to release it. Here I am laying next to this smooth, tanned body twenty years my younger, yet unable to make contact with her. She tosses and turns in her sleep. I move to the edge of the bed, saved from falling out by a thin twisting yarn that circumnavigates the mattress edge. I turn, Just in time and narrowly avoid being cracked across my face by her frayling arms responding to yet another nervous twitch. Finally she lies still. I know she is awake; she can only lie still when she is awake. The cold air rushes in as she throws back the duvet and inconsiderately leaves me cold and coverless. I listen to her groping her way down the unlit corridor towards the kitchen. I would love a cup of tea I think to myself, but past experience has taught me that she will only make one cup, one cup without sugar for herself. We row about nothing, the most insignificant discussions turn into anger and frustration, man's logic versus woman's passion. We are both stubborn people and refuse to give in until she starts insulting my manhood, my hygiene standards, my cooking ability and my age. I have no answer for this kind of onslaught. So I shut up, she chalks this up as a win and adds it to her list of insults. What is the point? We used to make mad passionate love every night, after an argument it was tremendous, it made the argument worth having, but now she turns her back on me and pretends to be asleep. I can hear the kettle boiling and now she is stirring in the milk. There is silence, what is she doing now? I don't have a clue. It seems like an age, maybe it was an age, maybe I fell asleep for a few minutes or was it an hour because now there is a single shaft of light breaking through the curtains, the sun is coming up. I can hear her coming back to bed, she will be cold, maybe she will cuddle up to me for warmth, that would be nice. I sense her enter the bedroom and through half open eyes watch her walk towards the bed. She is holding something out towards me, has she brought me a cup of tea? Should I speak or pretend to be asleep? As she raises her arm I realise it isn’t a cup in her hand but a knife. A kitchen knife, its long blade flashes in the dawning light as she kneels on the bed beside me and thrusts it down towards my chest. 'Oh my God!'