You think you know something about love. After all these years, you think you know. And then something surreptitious happens. Your lady libido fails you in one way or another, some more disastrous than others, and eventually in ways that are incongruent with one another.
Think of the skylight in the camper, the way you sighed as he moved into you. Think of the night stars hovering over the graveyard, the consecrated ground you knelt upon, your head thrown back, straining to find both Dippers. Think of the ceiling in your bedroom, the cracks in the plaster and the little piece of painted popcorn that plummeted down, landed in your open eye.
Maybe these memories will help you reconcile what it means to neglect the one you love. Maybe you will recall that life with its initial pinkness, now that it’s all gone red in your head.
Think of the children you fought to make together. Think of the war battles you waged, the ones in-country and afar, the ones in your house and the ones in the desert. Think again about the money—how it tallied up for him, for you—and just ask yourself: Could I have done more? Could I have been more? Could I have forced myself to make it beat on and on, forever more?
That heart, its lust and pride. What exactly did you lose; where precisely did you lose it? Will you find it, now you’ve stopped looking? Let red be now blue?