I couldn't sleep with her next to me. Her gentle snoring, calming to almost anyone else, was absolutely maddening to me. It was nails being dragged down a chalkboard, squealing and begging for everyone for miles to be quiet long enough for the mouse dragging its nails to be heard.

I wasn't in love with her. I didn't even love her, not for even the briefest of moments. A marriage of convenience? Who was this marriage convenient for? I knew that she slept with other men behind my back and, conversely, I knew that I slept with other men behind her back as well.

It was something about me that I had always known, that my closest of friends had always suspected, but my wife of fifteen years had been completely clueless.

I had caught her once, at a restaurant sitting with a man who was very obviously not me, sharing a drink and laughing as if they had been dating for years. I wanted to run across the restaurant and grab that man and punch him so hard across the face his jaw would become dislocated, but I knew better than that. I knew I had absolutely no right to do anything.

When my wife had finally come home I had asked her where she had been, and told her not to bother lying to me because I knew, and the worst part was, I didn't care. She seemed happy. And we knew, if we could come to a mutual understanding, it would be cheaper and less emotionally trying than a divorce.

But I can't sleep. I can't sleep knowing the life that I'm living, the motions that I've been going through for the last fifteen years. I can't sleep, and my wife just doesn't seem to care. She can sleep just fine; she's come to terms with being who she is.

And while I'm married to her, I don't think I ever will come to terms with who I am.