My Life in Black and White Read Online Free

we had six weeks in London to make it happen. Then we would be happy.

CHAPTER TWO
After the Party
    I kissed Dean as soon as we entered our apartment. Gently at first. He hated it if I was “aggressive.” He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. We kissed some more and I waited, limp in his arms, for him to make the next move: a hand on my breast maybe, or a nibble on my neck. Dean was restrained as usual, his arms at his sides like a tin soldier, but I kept kissing him until I could almost see the passion seep out like liquid mercury.
    I didn’t give up. I lifted my stained dress over my head and threw it to the floor. I kicked off those damn heels so I was a few inches shorter than him. Little, unthreatening me.
    “I love you,” I whispered in the hope he’d take the cue.
    When he didn’t respond, I glided to the bed and removed my bra and underwear. Dean undressed too. I climbed beneath the covers and he slid in next to me, my hand once more lightly touching him, only this time, the layer of protective denim gone, he swivelled his hips away, pecked me on the cheek and smiled.
    “I’m wiped out,” he said breezily, as if we’d come back from a hike with flushed cheeks and cold hands.
    “I think we have enough energy for one more thing …” and I kissed him again. This time his lips didn’t part.
    “Clara, I’m tired,” he said firmly.
    “Is it me?” I asked, just as I had done many times over the past year and always with the same result.
    “Don’t make me feel bad about this. I’m just not in the mood. Is that okay?” He pouted at me like a child.
    “Of course it is,” I said with forced warmth. “I just miss you.”
    “I’m right here,” he said, sounding relieved, as though excused from the dinner table after refusing to eat his broccoli. Then Dean rolled over and went to sleep. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling. I felt the tears run down my face and I didn’t wipe them away. Part of me wanted Dean to see me cry and feel bad or guilty, anything but indifferent. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. I was playing to an audience of one: me.
The Morning After
    This was what being left by your husband looked like: him standing at the foot of the marriage bed. You sitting up naked—the sheet pulled up to your chin like a deflector shield. In his hand a packed duffel bag, and a set of keys discarded on the duvet.
    This was what being left by your husband felt like: an ambush.
    “I love you, I’m just not in love with you,” Dean explained with a note of pity in his voice. “It hasn’t been good between us in a long time. You can’t really be shocked, Clara.”
    “But I am shocked!” I cried. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I knew he wasn’t happy. “I believed you when you said you were just tired all the time. I didn’t realize you meant you were tired of me.” I grabbed my robe and leapt out of bed and threw my arms around him. “We’llbe better. You have to try, Dean. You
do
love me.
You
know you love me.” The words sounded hollow even to me. He didn’t move a muscle; he just stood there allowing me to grasp the last breath of us before he gently pried my arms away.
    “I’m sorry, Clara. It’s not you, it’s me.”
    “You’re leaving me and all you can say is a cliché?” I retorted dryly. “Your writer’s criticism never leaves you, does it?” he snapped. That got me.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You’re always so sharp and clever when it comes to words, especially mine or my work for that matter.”
    “That’s not true! I’ve always supported you. You know I think you’re talented.”
    “You look down on what I do,” he said accusingly. “You don’t think it hurts me when you write about how bad reality TV is?”
    I was taken aback. “I always showed you those articles before they ran. And besides, I’ve been off the reality TV beat for ages and you know it,” I said weakly. “What’s this really about? Surely you’re not leaving