Remember Wifey? Number four, whom I married in 2011, who returned to her native Ukraine less than three months after the marriage took place. Who finally completed the immigration process and returned in January of this year.
She and I have kept in touch. Before B, we talked reconciliation. After B, we talked. A possible reconciliation attempt came up, down the road after I get over B. Assuming that I ever do. She and her son helped me move stuff into the new house on a couple occasions.
In fact, after helping this past weekend, they stayed at the new house. The plan was to help me get it cleaned up, get unpacked, and generally settled, since FaucetCompany gives me so little time off. I appreciated it. They are sharing a bedroom at the opposite end of the house.
They have been very helpful. And I admit that I had hoped for a reconciliation. She’s a good woman. Better than I deserve. But I’ve made no moves in that direction. I’m not over B, not by a long shot, and I just don’t feel that way towards her. At least not yet. I figured that would come in time, after I recovered from the loss of B. No hurry.
Yesterday morning when I got home from work, she told me that she needed to talk. She told me that she didn’t feel anything towards me romantically, and she didn’t want me to misunderstand or to get my hopes up for something that will almost certainly never be.
Well, at least I’m clear on that, and I don’t have to worry about when I might start to have those feelings for her again.
But I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t hurt a little. Because I had hoped to eventually put B behind me, and a while after that, maybe try to rekindle something with Wifey. It wouldn’t be ideal, but maybe we could have taken care of each other on some level, and be reasonably content in the process.
But, alas, no.
21 January 2015. The day my sex life died. Rest in peace.