Returning home to my own wife while now in Marla’s body was awkward. I think the only thing I said the entire first day was, “There was an accident at work,” and I left it at that.
I don’t think either of us really wanted to talk about it, and for a few days we didn’t. We didn’t even say a single word to each other. We both went off to our jobs and came home to eat in silence. I think by the time the weekend rolled around, we both realized we had to deal with the discomfort, but it was my wife who spoke up first.
“I don’t think I’m a lesbian. I don’t think I can become a lesbian either,” she told me softly.
I knew what she was trying to say. And if I was honest, Marla’s hormones were affecting me in a similar way. I couldn’t even find my own wife attractive in the way I had before the swap. It certainly blunted my own good news, which is that my company has estimated the time before we’d all have our own bodies back from “never” to “ten to fifteen years.” I wondered if I should even bother sharing the information. We couldn’t exactly just pause our relationship for a decade, and it’d be hard spending that much time with someone you weren’t attracted too. And then there was the idea of kids, which we had both wanted, but in ten years, we’d be in our forties.
I sighed, “We’re breaking up, aren’t we?”
My wife nodded.
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