My wife lay beside me, wrapped in our heavy duvet, snuggled up all comfortable and warm. She'd come to bed before me last night, not feeling herself, and was still asleep as my smartwatch alarm vibrated to wake me for work. I looked over at her, content in her slumber, and decided not to wake her just yet.
Even under the 15-tog duvet I could see her body in my mind's eye. No amount of bedding or sensible cotton nightwear could hide that figure from me. Twenty years of marriage, kids raised and grown, had done nothing to dampen my love - or my lust - for this amazing woman. Oh, if only it were true the other way around.
Reluctantly I dragged my weary naked carcass out of our bed and padded my way over to the ensuite. I relieved myself, took a towel from the rack and turned on the shower to pre-warm the tiles and the air before committing to the spray. The pre-dawn darkness was periodically broken by the flash of her toothbrush, charging on its station. Again, I wondered? Must be something wrong with the battery, as mine could go a couple of weeks between charges, whereas just recently hers seemed to be needing a top-up every day. Nothing lasts forever, I signed to myself. I made a mental note to buy her a replacement on my way home from work that evening.
I let the hot water pound against my skin as I washed the night funk away. I'd never understood how people can tolerate a cold shower, but maybe I just enjoyed my creature comforts too much. I scrubbed my salt-and-pepper hair, shampoo lathering up, and rinsed it away, enjoying the sensation of the bubbles washing down my washboard abs. I scrubbed myself with a soap-drenched scrunchie, my skin turning red under the heat and the abrasive action of the washing. I switched to using just my hands as I reached more sensitive areas, making sure my privates were as clean as the rest of me. Not that they'd be seeing much action, but that was no reason not to be hygienic. I stopped before I got carried away; she'd be disgusted if she knew I'd beaten myself off in the shower. Funny; when we were younger we'd fantasised about fucking each other silly in a shower as posh as this. Now we had one, but our wild days were long past.
I turned off the water and let myself drip for a short while as the mist swirled around me. No point in soaking the towel. I looked over at my reflection in the mirror, which was heated to prevent it steaming up. Not bad, I thought; the middle-age spread hadn't caught up to me yet. Perhaps the squash and the circuits were working after all. They were the only action I was getting.
Sighing, I towelled myself over, and went to shave, grateful once more for the magic mirror. The razor glided over my clean skin, and I felt baby soft. I glanced down, considered for the hundredth time whether I should attend to lower parts with the razor, and deciding against. I hadn't needed to be presentable below the waist for a decade or more.
Once, a year or so ago, I'd considered starting an affair with my very capable personal assistant, Sandra. She was an absolute knockout, reminded me of my wife when we were younger... but that was partly the problem. She was barely older than our own children, and that kind of gave me the ick. Plus I just couldn't do that to my wife... or be able to live with the guilt, waiting for her to inevitably find out.
Wrapping the towel around my waist, I stepped back into the bedroom. She still lay in the bed, dead to the world. As was my custom, I'd wake her with some coffee before I left for the office; a day full of executive briefings and million-pound decisions to make. She was the calm in my storm, my rock in the tumult. I couldn't imagine a life without her; I accepted that although our sex life was dead, our marriage was very much alive. We just worked together, understood each other, in an indifferent world. The end of lust comes for us all, I knew. This was our life now. Soon it would be grandchildren and retirement. Maybe we'd move abroad to the sun, like we'd always dreamed of. I thought of her, laying in a bikini on a sun lounger by a pool, margarita in hand, and smiled. That's the future she deserves; not being endlessly pawed at by an inappropriately randy husband.
The wardrobes were along her side of the bed. Softly I padded round, opened the door, and started to make my selection for the day. The cool blue Italian suit today, I thought, with a simple crisp white shirt. I pulled them from their racks, hung them on the hook, and carefully closed the door.
"Hey, handsome," she said.
I turned to face the bed. She was looking up at me, a smile on her face. Proud of her husband? Maybe, but her expression was unfathomable. She reached over, tapped the lights on low, and I could see her properly. A little twinkle in her eye as she looked me up and down.
"Morning, honey," I replied. "Sorry if I woke you."
"No, I'm glad I caught you this morning," she said. "I wanted to say a proper goodbye to you today."
"Why?"
"Oh, no reason," she waved aside. "Maybe I was a little rude last night. I've been feeling... odd, lately. I think it might be the new tablets."
She had been feeling 'a little odd' for a few years, to be fair. After seeing a few specialists to rule out anything sinister, they realised it was early-onset menopause. For the last few months, she'd tried a succession of different tablets, but nothing settled her moods or flushes. It was horrible watching her suffer, knowing there was nothing I could do but be patient with her and support her through it.
"I'm sorry you're still feeling bad, honey. Should we make another appointment with the doctor?"
She was still giving me the strangest look. "I didn't say I felt bad. I said I felt odd." She bit her lip, looked down, and then looked back straight into my eyes. I could have sworn I saw a flame flicker in her pupils. The tone of her voice changed, an octave deeper, as she issued the order: "Drop the towel."
"Sorry, what?"
