sex therapy

you never say anything romantic
to me anymore,
she says, adjusting her
pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers
as we lie in bed,
almost asleep
after making love for
a few minutes.
what, I say.
did you say something.
the zip has gone out
of our love
life, she says
rolling over
to stare at the ceiling.
which is dark
and shadowy.
my heart's still beating
like a rabbit,
I tell her,
it wasn't good for you?
five minutes?
thanks for nothing, she
says.
we have work in
the morning, I didn't
want to keep you up.
I think i'm being very
kind
and compassionate.
it's Saturday night,
she says.
oh, right. well, I do
have basketball in the morning.
right,
she says.
what are you trying to say,
I say to her, fully
awake now
and also staring at the ceiling.
we need to spice
things up
she says, or we're doomed.
maybe we should see a sex
therapist.
what?
I was talking to my friend sally
and she was telling me about
all the fun stuff
her and her husband do
after they went to a therapist.
hmmm. I say.
like what?
sometimes they tie each other up
and blindfold each other.
use baby oil.
with duct tape?
no, ropes and cuffs.
what about the key? what if you
lose the key?
he drips candle wax on her.
ouch, I say. that's got to hurt
a little.
or sometimes they pretend they
don't know each other
and pick each other up
at the bar at the Olive Garden.
love their bread sticks.
i'm serious, she says.
we need to step things up or I
might...
might what?
oh never mind.
I reach over and take her hand.
okay, okay.
let's start tomorrow.
maybe i'll be a cop and you can
be a woman of the night.
i'll pick up some candles
and oils
and rope. we'll give it a shot.
she sighs, and kisses me
on the cheek. okay, she says.
good night.