Moire Faille

The hot flashes began two days after I got home from the hospital. Two days. Michael was coming into the room with a tray of oatmeal and soft-boiled eggs when the first one hit. He asked, "And how is our vagina today," as he settled a pillow on my lap and then the tray. "Hmm," he said, as he straightened up, "let's mark this as the day we began to talk about your vagina in the first person plural."

Right then, that moment, when I should have laughed, a tingling across my arms, or should I say, beneath the skin of my arms, erupted into a burning that instantly rushed to the soles of my feet and the back of my head, and the hollows at my temples felt like there was sweat beading up in them, which there was, and the flesh across my chest below my collarbone felt as if it might be melting.

Michael's brow knit. He tilted his head. "Are you okay, honey?"

"No," I managed to squeak through a grimace, "I think I'm having a hot flash."

"Ooh," he said, "Let's call it an energy surge." He handed me a dish towel, which I used to dab my forehead. "I want to have sex with you sometime when you're having one."

Who couldn't love this man, I thought. "I love that you want to give this a positive spin, even turn menopause sexy, but I can tell you right now," I said while squirming around underneath the food tray trying to adjust myself, since the pillows behind me now felt damp and yucky, "you do not want to do that." I brushed the hair back from my face, pushed it up off my neck.

"You're pretty when you do that," he said.

Michael looked like he meant it. Standing there with an apron on over his jeans and T-shirt, my apron, the one my mom brought back from her trip to Hawaii with the big hibiscus flower print. His beard looked a bit overgrown and his hair was sticking up a little hilariously to one side, but he looked so handsome I couldn't help but stare.

"Why are you looking at me funny," he asked, looking down at himself and running a hand across his face.

"'Cause you're adorable," I said. "And because, actually, if it weren't for being in bed from a surgery, I'd like to have sex with you right now."

He laughed. I laughed, too, and he leaned down and kissed me on the lips, a sweet, soft, lingering kiss. Then he whispered, "Whoa, girl, you're giving me a woody."

We both giggled. "I think there's hope," I said. Two days out of surgery and maybe there is a spark, I thought.

It's two months after the total hysterectomy, and I'm still a month or two away from even considering sex, but Michael and I hold hands, snuggle a lot. I joke that he is the best wife a woman could have, that we've discovered his talent for cooking, and that he cleans the house much better than I ever expected.

One afternoon, we decided it was time for an outing while the kids were in school. I was dying to go to a thrift store, but we didn't want to go too far. We drove into Asbury Park for lunch. There's a Salvation Army in town, and two secondhand shops in the art district, one on the main drag that's super expensive and over the top, and one down a side street in the basement of a brick building called the Trading Post and is known for having a men's section. It's just around the corner from the restaurant, not far to walk, and though Michael was wary, I convinced him it would be okay. He held my elbow as we went, and it was a bright, not too cold midday, a stiff but not harsh wind coming in off the Atlantic. On the side street, we were protected from...