Intra-Couple Intercourse

Recently, my wife, Carolyn, returned from a store trip, and I followed her upstairs to surprise her with the news I’d folded all the laundry in her absence, but before I opened my mouth, she said, “Thank you for putting away all the clothes.” Then she said, “You wanted to surprise me with that, didn’t you?” I was dumbfounded and asked, “How’d you know all that?” She said, “I saw your jeans hanging in the closet, and I noticed the spread on our bed is absolutely smooth, so I knew you had smoothed out all the wrinkles after you folded everything on top of the bed, which means you covered your tracks, which means you wanted to surprise me.” I don’t know if this exchange is typical of other long-together couples, but it’s typical in our 33-year marriage. This level of sensitivity and Sherlock Holmes-level sleuthing in my wife puts a lot of pressure on me to be just as observant and intuitive—which I’m not—but I have learned a few things that I’d like to pass along.

In movies and on TV, communication between spouses is often presented as long, loud, conversations—but my wife is more likely to convey messages to me without any words at all. Her nonverbal methods of cluing me in include looks, gestures, the silent treatment, leaving the room, and redoing some task I’ve done.

I used to load the dishwasher to help out with household chores, but no more. I noticed that every time I did this, Carolyn would go behind me and rearrange at least half the dishes. Without a word I got the message that my dish loading skills were lacking. In case there was any doubt, she once wrote in a poem that after the persona’s husband loaded the dishwasher, the pots and pans “clanged” and “rattled” each other clean.

It’s my job to regularly take out our kitchen compost crock and dump the contents on our compost pile. If I’m remiss and am outside, I often return to the house to find the crock on our porch just outside the back door. I actually appreciate the efficiency, and this way there’s not even a chance of verbal conflict.

When Carolyn does use words, she often talks in code, which I then have to translate. I’ve learned to analyze both context and tone of voice. When she asks, “What are you eating?” I know she means, “Your loud crunching and smacking are incredibly annoying. I’m about to scream. For the love of God, please stop.”

Almost all of her questions are danger signals to me with various levels of threat. Questions beginning with “Why?” require particular attention. If she asks, “Why are you doing that?” that’s threat level yellow. If she asks, “Why do you always do that?” that’s threat level red. I interpret this latter question to communicate, “Stop what you’re doing and maybe go away for a little while so that I don’t start wistfully contemplating my marital status options.” Once she asked, “Why do you always tap your diet Coke can on the top of the glass?” The actual answer is so that I get every last drop out of the can before I throw it in the recycling. But I realized that maybe the tapping had become a habit, and maybe the noise was irritating to others, and maybe Carolyn had a right to worry that some day I might chip the top of a glass. So I don’t ever do that anymore—when Carolyn’s around.

I’ve also learned to attend carefully to her questions beginning with the words “Are you?” If she asks, “Are you going to?” that’s usually bad, as in the question “Are you going to buy that?” The phrasing seems neutral enough, but trust me: this is a rhetorical question. If she asks, “Are you really going to?” that’s very bad, and if she adds a negative into the question (“You’re not really going to buy that, are you?”), that’s 5-alarm, head-for-the-hills bad. At this point I assert my manhood and say, “Why not?” while in my mind I’m already putting back the life-size black bear footrest that would have been absolutely perfect in our library.

So I guess what I’m trying to say to people in long-term relationships or people who want to be in one is that you should not only listen to your significant other; you should also always pay attention. And you have to break the code.

(My thanks to Wildacres Retreat, where this essay was written.)