We’ve been box-set binge-ing. We’re about 6 series behind. (I’m sorry, Dear American Reader, I can’t bring myself to call them seasons, even though it’s an American show.)
There’s sexual tension all over the plot lines. Office politics and who’s fucking who … or in most cases who’s not fucking who, but would really like to fuck them. [Ed: Thankfully there’s not as much actual fucking as in House of Cards, which AM removed from Netflix’s shows-to-watch-list about a year ago because, despite his love of porn, watching people fuck with his Wife in the same room was just far too uncomfortable. Jeez, AM’s fucked up!]

After a mildly crap couple of days at the coal face of being grown-ups, we retreat to the TV.

Ok. I retreated from conversation and ushered us away from dealing with shit. More specifically, on the topic of one of our typical stumbling blocks, we saw things typically differently.
I deferred to her.
She sensed I was deferring and asked if I was.
I denied it … and deferred.

For distraction, or possibly evasion, I turned the TV on to our current box-set.
We watched an episode.
There was a fleeting exchange about another. I took an exec decision. Watching another episode would reduce the chance of having to talk to each other.
But before the opening credits were past, I oddly felt an urge to invite Her into Her bed. Not necessarily for sex.
I said nothing. The barriers to intimacy, and even communication of much worth, have become far too intimidating.
Anyway, it was a fleeting desire. As much as I wanted to hold on to it, it quickly evaporated. Not in the usual cloud of bitterness, chased away by some irksome, insensitive comment or disagreement, it just evaporated.

An hour later, as the closing credits for the second show of the evening rolled up the TV screen …
Her: Do you want anything else?
She meant on TV, and it was later than both our usual respective bed times.
Me: Probably.
I took Her literally. Not in terms of whether I wanted to watch more crap on TV. There are other things I want. Other things that are absent from this house and this marriage.
There was a pause.
She said nothing.
I said nothing.
And for a moment it kind of felt like She could read the subtext for a change.
Before the conversation could be perpetuated, I picked up the TV remote and clicked Play for the third episode of the evening.
It’s a good show.
Definitely binge-worthy. And we’re a long way behind. Maybe 90 shows. If we ration ourselves to maybe 4 episodes a week, we’d barely have to talk in the evenings for the best part of another 6 months.
And it’s not like we have anything better to do. We can leave that to the characters on screen. Let’s just hope we don’t have to watch them doing anything better.

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