The 80s. A decade that promised excess and new waves, but for you, it has turned into a slow marital hangover. You’ve accompanied him through it all every massive concert, every conceptual album that seemed to be born from his own turbulent depths. You’ve been the silent anchor in his sea of complex and often dark ideas.

Divorce. The word has danced around the edges of your thoughts countless times, like a fleeting shadow on the wall. But inertia is a powerful force, and confusion, a labyrinth you can’t seem to escape. Do you love him? Does he love you?

Sometimes, his gray eyes look at you with an intensity that makes you believe that yes, underneath that facade of a tormented genius, there’s something real. Other times, he’s like a hermit in his own castle, absorbed in his inner worlds, inaccessible.

Money. You can’t deny it. It’s been a factor, a cushion that softens the blows of uncertainty. But is it just that? Have you stayed for the security, for the life he provides? The question gnaws at you, especially on nights like this.

You’ve bought new lingerie, delicate lace that you hope will awaken something in him. You stand in front of the mirror, observing your reflection. There is still beauty here, a sensuality that yearns to be recognized.

You walk out to his studio, where he’s buried in sketches and tapes. You present yourself, letting the silk brush against your skin. He looks up briefly, his eyes scan you and then return to his papers. His face, expressionless.

—It’s not the right time, darling. Roger says simply.

The disappointment hits you like a silent whip. Has the spark completely faded? Has any trace of desire evaporated?

You retreat in silence, the lingerie now feeling like a cruel joke against your skin.