Working on Holland Kingsley’s Disappear brings me excitement. Just a few days ago, I was worried about my next gig. Not only will I be working on a score for one of my favorite director’s new film, but I’m also going to work in my favorite city. I’ve been homesick for quite some time. Although I had met some folks in LA, mostly due to Andrew’s position at the university, I had never made a real connection with anyone here. I’ve been lonely. Andrew is always working, and I’ve become a hermit because of driving. I am a real New Yorker, and as a New Yorker, I absolutely hate driving. My driving instructor had declared I was the worst driver she had ever taught. It took me several tries to pass the permit test and more than a year and thousands of dollars’ worth of driving lessons to finally get my driver’s license. I am still a really bad driver but force myself to drive at least once a week.

Los Angeles, or rather LA as the locals would call it, is a great city. For those who didn’t grow up in New York, it is an exciting city. For those who grew up in the Big Apple, it’s a “nice” city. The weather is always warm, and it’s always sunny unless you live in the marina. Rain is so rare that we have a drought.

Today is another sunny day, and I’m enjoying it. Surprisingly, on my way home, the handsome guy at the café interrupts my thoughts. I had never been one to pay attention to other men but something was different about this guy. Something familiar. I know that I’ve seen him before Monday. I shake my head, realizing that it couldn’t possibly be the boy I’ve tried to forget all these years. A smile forms on my face as I think about the stranger’s generosity. He paid my bill without a word. I laugh to myself because Andrew doesn’t even do that.

Unfamiliar indecent thoughts come to mind. I imagine running my fingers through his thick, dark hair before his beautiful mouth is on me. Closing my eyes briefly, I see him walking toward me. Then I picture him with her. I’m not into women, but I admit she, too, is hot.

Is he in bed with that girl right now? Is he fucking her the way I dreamed of getting fucked? These thoughts turn me on. Do I have time to watch porn before Andrew gets home? Yes, I watch porn … a lot of porn … almost daily … for several years now. It is my one guilty pleasure. My friend Patti introduced me to the world of adult entertainment. Her words, “Sometimes, just watching people have sex turns me on,” ring true. I enjoy watching hot men with big, thick dicks fuck women senseless in various positions, sometimes envisioning myself in those scenes. And yes, I touch myself while watching them. It’s the only time I get off.

Strolling along Rose Avenue, the stranger’s image is on repeat. His intense eyes can easily rival Paul Newman’s. Blushing, I can’t help myself from giggling … again. Andrew would certainly think I was disturbed if I were to ever reveal my sexual thoughts to him. He would have a heart attack if he saw my recent Google searches. A good fifty percent of the history on my laptop is porn. And my Tumblr account consists of different types of porn−food, word, and lots of sex. Oh, Andrew, why did you stop liking sex? When we were younger, he couldn’t get enough of it. When we moved in together, we would have sex at least once a day. Although it was always in bed and in the same position, it was still sex. I’ve actually thought about giving Andrew herbal concoctions to enhance his sexual vitality. But then I worry about unintentionally killing him. The truth is, it’s not so much a longing for an orgasm, which I admit, I get on my own and have never ever had with Andrew, but the intimacy, that I crave.

The café is only a few blocks from my bungalow. By the time I reach the front of the house, my face is flushed from the salacious images in my head. Something different has occurred. My underwear is drenched, and I need to change them immediately.

Andrew and I have been living in the house for almost five years but it still feels foreign. Our clothes, books, several mementos, and photos all surround the house, but something is missing.

Desolation greets me when I walk inside. When I first looked for a place to rent, I had wanted a contemporary home but also a place with warmth where I could envision a small family would be comfortable. I grew up in homes that were open and I wanted to create a home in that spirit. However, Andrew fell in love with the Victorian-style house that was filled with small, dark, tiny rooms. It was the complete opposite of what I had longed for. The bungalow, considered small by the average American, seemed too big for a couple without kids, without pets, and without passion. Most folks would have had sex in each and every room of their home, but for Andrew, sex should take place in bed and only in bed. When we first started having sex, it was all so brand new to me that I didn’t question our sex life. Lately, I have begun to question our sex life and pray for change.

Days that I didn’t compose or do volunteer work were filled with standing in front of the bay window and slowly watching the world go by. Neighbors conversing among themselves with Starbucks in hands, UPS drivers delivering packages, toddlers riding their scooters up and down the block, and young couples holding hands while strolling their dog. I would watch as if I wasn’t a participant in this world but as a perpetual viewer. This is my life. Andrew is my life. At times, I feel like throwing it all away and returning to New York … alone.

It’s not as if I didn’t like or value my life with Andrew. I just didn’t love it anymore. I became a person I never thought I would be. Living a life my own father didn’t consider worth living−in a relationship with someone I love but that had become passionless and boring. I think of my fiancé and the past few years. Sadly, even though Andrew and I live together, we weren’t living together.