falling fruit & moments to redefine love

falling fruit & moments to redefine love

one weekend, a few weekends ago, i pretended to like being domestic. and then i stopped pretending to like it.

the night before, we strapped backpacks on each other, leashed the dogs, and scouted out a pear tree, flush with ripe fruit. like monkeys, we clambered about the branches, stooped to sift through the dropped pears like beachcombers in the moonlight, on someone else’s beach.

a branch shakes. thud. another branch shakes. thud thud thud. backpacks are full, we head home and talk about sexual attraction and lack of sexual attraction. is this our forbidden fruit? our relationship is as ideal as i can imagine it to be. we agree on things that matter. our core issues and values align, aside from the whole ‘kids’ things, but that’s an entirely different blog post in-of itself. we’re best friends. we value family. we have great families. we respect each others space. we have a similar sense of humor. we can be 100% ourselves in each other’s presence.

but sexual attraction wanes with time. this is not a new realization for me – it’s happened in every relationship i’ve ever been in. at first, it’s like high school romance: we just can’t taste enough of each other, insatiably. but over a few years, (two to be exact), you just don’t want to eat that meal again.

is this the part of marriage and long term relationships that people say “takes to much work?” are we really just working to make sure we can fuck each other with the same reckless abandon as we did in the back of our mom’s volvo station wagon on prom night? i think it’s the hardest part to maintain. over time, your friendship is strengthened, and as that bond tightens, romance is squeezed out, drop by drop until the river of lust has run dry and you’re left with nothing but watching ‘Indecent Proposal’ and ‘Love Actually’ with a heightened imagination.

i love my man more than ever. but i want to have sex with him less and less. i’d like to blame it on me, or him, or…something, but i think it’s what happens when your relationship shifts into best friend gear, and your need to procreate wanes.

we walked home and talked about all this relationship “physical attraction” crap, backs loaded with ripe fruit. and as i mashed the fruit over a hot stove stop, aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves floating about the kitchen, i thought of how we define ‘intimacy’. my man flicked a paintbrush up and down the wall, leaving trails of luminescent yellow. i tended our pear butter. we shared a kitchen space, improving a dwelling, putting away the harvest for the barren months ahead.

pear jam

like the pear tree, our relationship isn’t always full of fruit. but there is always potential. for a bountiful harvest. for sweet juices. for adventure and realization of primal urges.

the pear butter lies in 6 jars in the back of the pantry. the tree has dropped it’s last pear and my best friend and i will finish painting the kitchen someday soon. but we’ll be looking for the next harvest, until we find an intimate moment to redefine love.

pears

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