My psychologist is hot for my husband, I’m sure of it. We have decided to go to couples therapy. This is our first visit, and I’m losing.

She knows we are here at the geneticist’s suggestion after our child died of a chromosomal disorder. But that’s not why I’m here. I have other issues with our marriage. I list them off, typical sordid couple fare: money, sex, parenting, and whose turn it is to walk the dogs. I start my monologue in a clinical tone but soon spiral into teary blubbering, ending with a self pitying remark about being “too soft” to handle this relationship.

Silence. Tough crowd. I’m not even offered a tissue.

My husband is asked to speak. He has a beautiful rich calm voice and he’s incredibly articulate. It’s like Eckhart Tolle has invaded his body. He’s agreed to come to couples therapy. That wins him big points right there. He does not counter, he does not blame. He is saddened and shocked at how upset I am. He’s willing to do anything to keep our love alive in this marriage. And he’s wearing that blue shirt that brings out his shockingly light eyes. Great. Don’t I look like the ungrateful turd?

The therapist has a poker face but I bet it’s rare she comes across such a fine specimen as my mate and such a sniveling ninny as me. Now I feel bad. So I begin to list off my husband’s many attributes, not wanting to sound ungracious and certainly not wanting to hurt him. I married him for a damn good reason. He has a brilliant mind, he’s respected in his field, he’s a terrific Daddy, a good provider, he’s sexually magnificent…”

Did her eyes just widen?

Did she just lick her lips? I start to fret, “Why did I tell her about the six orgasms? Why did I mention he can do his own dry walling?!” Crap. It’s so over. She’s gonna write me off quicker than a meter maid. I’m going to get a prescription for an antidepressant and he’s going to get a gold medal for Spouse Of The Year. Nope. That’s not fair. Sure, he’s got his great points but oh, I could tell her a thing or two. What she doesn’t know! Ooh, I’ve got a few humdingers on my list of “what my baby done wrong” that would cause her to curl up into a little ball, brandishing a crucifix, hissing towards him, “back back Satan”…Oh yes. I should, because he’s looking so good right now, any woman would do back flips to be with a man like this. Probably even her! Wait a minute…

I look across at Doc in her smart skirt and sweater set. She crosses her legs for him. She has a compassionate yet professional exterior, those focused “I’m listening to you, poor man” eyes. She has short hair, he loves short hair. I bet she pulls a good salary. That would solve our money issues. She seems naturally slender and has excellent shoes. They’d look great together. She’s obviously educated, unlike me, so they’d stimulate each other intellectually. I bet she’s never late and I bet she doesn’t burn the rice. They say crazy people become psychologists and my husband always says “the crazy ones are great in bed” (one of his reasons for marrying me). Yeah. I can see the crazy in her. I mean, look at that garish painting she has on the wall. Nobody in their right mind would buy that.

She’s in her late forties, well preserved, likely not one to bother him with wanting more kids…likely not one to give him any more dead babies. She’s perfect. How can I set them up? He’d be so happy! I can see them now. Drinking black coffee, reading the Globe And Mail, sitting out on the sunny deck he’s built for their vacation property on the island…

“One of Lucia’s greatest gifts is her incredible imagination…”

Says my husband. I am startled back into the room.

“But her fantasy life can warp her sense of reality. She can sometimes project things onto people. I think she escapes into her creative world to avoid pain…”

I’m so busted.

Okay, so maybe the psychologist isn’t in love with my husband. Maybe I’m looking for an easy guilt free way out of this marriage. And in fact, perhaps I’m not even truly looking for a way out of this marriage but a way out of the hard work that love is. A way to disappear and forget all the struggle and pain and death we’ve seen in the past five years.

We book another session

Our hour is up. I feel exhausted, like I’ve been walking through a sea of cement. I look over at my husband. His blue eyes are gray and sad. What am I doing to this man who used to be my dream come true and now is in competition with my fantasies? It’s a difficult decision for me, but I turn and hold him tight. We stand there, huddled together under the rain outside the therapist’s office. I still think he’d be better off with her, but for now, he’s got me. And this week, I’m going to try and stay awake.