Absence Of Desire
As the two of us just stood there, staring at each other, I realized I didn’t want our conversation drifting back to what his mother had said. I wasn’t ready for that kind of discussion, not with him, not yet. So I quickly changed the subject.
“Is it time for us to go down for breakfast?” I asked, forcing a small smile. “Because I have to admit, I’m very hungry.”
He looked at me, then tapped his leg twice, the motion stiff and uncertain. “Okay, here’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t know if anybody told you, but… we’re supposed to be presenting the sheets.”
My body tensed. I felt my stomach sink. “What does that mean?” I asked, already dreading the answer.
“It means… we were supposed to consummate our marriage yesterday,” he said, eyes avoiding mine. “And we didn’t. But today there’s this whole celebration downstairs where people are supposed to, I don’t know, celebrate our union. And there’s supposed to be a spreading of sheets....”
My throat tightened. “To verify that I was a virgin.”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t really understand the importance of it, and I don’t care either way. But my mom kind of gave me a whole lecture about it. So yeah… there’s that.”
I nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay. So… what do you want me to do?”
He looked toward the bed. And not just a glance—a long, weighted look that made me straighten my back instinctively. My whole body braced, my mind already calculating how far the bathroom was and how fast I could get there if I needed to.
Then, finally, his eyes shifted back to me. He let out a slow breath, releasing his hands at his sides, and started walking toward me.
And just like that, fear bloomed inside me, real fear, the kind I hadn’t fully felt until that very moment. It rose fast, sharp, from my stomach to my chest, threatening to consume me as I stood frozen in place.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, placing a hand to his mouth in a thoughtful gesture, then resting it on his head as if trying to organize the mess in his mind. “I thought about it,” he added, shaking his head slowly, though it felt like he wasn’t fully present like he was drifting somewhere far away inside himself. “I really, really thought about it.”
He let out a breath.
“Do I want to do it? No. I definitely don’t want to do it. Do I have to do it, though? Yeah… I definitely have to do it. So what do I do?”
He looked at me like he genuinely wanted an answer, but all I could do was stare back at him, speechless.
“What do you suggest I do?” he asked.
I shook my head slightly, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know.”
He stepped away from me then, walking toward the bed. His next words made my blood run cold.
“They said they wanted bloody sheets, so I guess… bloody sheets are what they’re gonna get, right?” he said with a strange, almost detached calm. “I mean, I’m not gonna go down there and say I was inside you and you didn’t bleed because.... naturally if I say that, You would just counter my words and say I couldn't get it up...”
He paused, eyes darkening. “And just so you know, I can,” he added, almost like a warning.
Then, suddenly, his hand went to his pocket. I stiffened.
He pulled out a small object and then pressed a button. A knife snapped open.
My body jolted as I instinctively stumbled backwards toward the dressing table, my heart pounding. But he didn’t look at me. Instead, he climbed into the bed, moved toward the center, and without hesitation sliced into the palm of his hand.
I watched in stunned silence as he let his blood drip onto the white sheets, smearing it across them deliberately, creating the illusion they all expected.
When he was done, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at me. He simply got up and walked to the bathroom. I assumed he was cleaning the wound.
I stayed frozen in place, my eyes locked on the blood-stained sheets, my mind struggling to process what had just happened.
A few minutes later, he came out with his hand bandaged. He gave me a small wink and said, “This is our little secret. That’s what marriage is about, isn’t it? Keeping each other’s secrets.”
And just like that, he walked out, leaving me alone in the room… still staring at the bed.
Still not sure how to feel about any of it.
On one hand, I was relieved, grateful, even that he hadn’t touched me. That he hadn’t tried to force himself on me like I feared. But on the other hand… there was this sinking feeling I couldn’t shake.
Was I that unattractive?
He never answered his mother when she made that jab, and maybe that silence said more than words ever could. Maybe I wasn’t his type. Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough. Sexy enough. Maybe I just… didn’t spark anything in him.
Why am I even thinking like this?
I should be thankful. Right?
He was clear.... very clear that he’d never touch me. He practically underlined the word. And right now, I don’t even want him to. I don’t trust him, I barely know him, and the idea of being intimate with someone like this..... it terrifies me. So why is this bothering me?
Maybe it’s the curiosity.
That quiet, persistent wonder I always carried inside me. I’d imagined what it might be like one day… how it would feel, how I would feel. Would it be like what I’d read in books, what people whispered about in hushed conversations? Or would it be nothing special, just something that happened and then ended?
But now… I’m married. And my husband has no interest in me. Not in that way.
Am I going to die a virgin? Is that what this means?
Would that be my life now, sharing a room, a name, a life, but not a bed?
And no, of course, I can’t have someone else. This is the Mafia. Affairs don’t end in messy divorces, they end in blood. If I ever crossed that line, if someone ever found out, he’d be dead. And me? I wouldn’t live to regret it.
I had prepared myself for so much before this marriage, violence, cruelty, neglect. I thought those were the dangers. I never imagined that the real wound would be this quiet rejection. This absence of desire.
But is it really a problem? Shouldn’t I be counting my blessings?
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