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[Here are the last three paragraphs from an article published in a Toronto newspaper circa 1990. The author was 37 years of age at the time and the woman in question was his wife. The title of the article is “Passion’s Slave Resigns Himself,” and the entire article can be found HERE.]

Of the five stages of grief, I’m at number four: Resignation. I know that no amount of cajoling, bargaining, romantic endeavour or simply being really, really nice to her will make the slightest difference. I will get laid once a month until her hormone cycle changes at menopause. After that . . . who knows?

This is not a terrible state of affairs. I have the comfort of knowing that she is not, herself, sexually frustrated. I can trust that she won’t go elsewhere in search of fulfilment. I also have the comfort of knowing that eventually I too will be released from the madness and slavery of passion. I will at last reach the final stage of grief: Acceptance.

But not a day goes by that I don’t mourn the loss of what we once had. Like a blind man who remembers sight, I remember what it felt like to be lovers.

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