Daniel Bergner| New York Times| May 22,2013She met her husband at a bar nearly two decades ago: she joked with him over a foosball table, watched him clown on the dance floor. “I had a professor at college who talked about ‘the attraction template.’ My husband’s right inside my attraction template,” she said. She remembered his dark hair, his boyish looks, the way she’d felt they fit together, because they were both on the short side. “And he’s a stand-up guy. He has an excellent sense of what’s right and what’s wrong. He can make fun but not in a way that hurts anyone.”
When they were dating and out with other couples, Linneah would think, “I just want to get home with him, I just want to get home with him,” she recalled. But that lust had dwindled. Around the arrival of their second child in 2004, something insidious crept in, partly fatigue but partly something else that she couldn’t name. She talked about her to-do lists, the demands of the kids, “but let’s face it,” she said, “sex doesn’t take that much time.” Rather than feeling as if she still wanted to grab her husband’s hand and hurry him up the stairs in their small brick house, on many nights she waited in bed, somewhat like prey, though the predator was tender, though he was cherished.