My wife and I had a joke in the first year: she was the engine and I was the passenger. I loved it then. Being wanted that much felt like winning something I hadn't earned. Priya wanted sex the way other people want coffee: every morning, most nights, sometimes in the middle of the afternoon when I came home early and found her standing in the bedroom doorway, already smiling. She initiated so often that I stopped noticing I'd never once had to. I'd never had to wonder if she was in the mood. By year three, I started wondering whether I could keep up. It started small. I was tired after work, then tired on weekends, then tired in a way sleep didn't fix. She never pushed, but she never stopped reaching for me either, and I could feel the gap between her wanting and my capacity like a debt compounding in the dark. Some nights my body simply wasn't interested, no matter how much the rest of me was. A doctor friend wrote me a prescription for Viagra. I told myself it was no different from a vitamin. For a few months it worked, and she was thrilled. She told me I was a different man, that she felt like we were newlyweds again. I smiled and took it as a compliment. Then the headaches started. My heart would race afterward, hammering so hard I'd lie awake listening to it. I started planning my evenings around the pill, around the hour it needed, around the dread of the moment she'd turn toward me. Sex had become something I prepared for like a shift at work. I never told her. She thought I was glowing. I was only surviving.