We’re facing opposite directions and neither of us feels like rolling over.

We could barely get into, and now can’t get out of, our pants.

We’ve been inhabiting the same physical space for two years and any sense of mystery or spontaneity has been sucked out of the room by our building’s recently improved air-filtration system.

We have yet to return to a consistent shower-every-day schedule.

The new season of Ozark /The Great British Bake Off /The Real Housewives of Literally Anywhere requires our immediate attention.

We didn’t realize the fetishes we were willing to entertain during the honeymoon phase would be lifelong commitments.

We are listing all the ways in which “sex is great, but have you tried…”

We already hit our move goal for the day.

It’s not date night.

It’s date night, but wouldn’t it be more exciting if our sex didn’t feel so prescriptive?

We ordered and ate three pizzas before passing out on each other while watching a true-crime documentary.

It’s raining.

It’s sunny.

Masturbation is more efficient.

We’re waiting for more advanced sex robots.

We injured ourselves opening a jar of pickles.

We’re binge-watching Below Deck and compared to the sexual energy of drunken twenty-year-olds in a jacuzzi on a yacht, our level of attraction seems inadequate.

We are never not tired.

We think we have COVID.

Fuck, we most definitely have COVID.

Our pandemic puppy insists on watching and it’s freaking us out.

Our ongoing conversation about the irreversible destruction of our environment is terrible foreplay.

The constant threat of nuclear warfare is terrible foreplay.

Thinking about the next presidential election is terrible foreplay.

Our fear of accidentally bringing a child into this godforsaken world is greater than our faith in modern methods of contraception.

This weighted anxiety blanket is preventing us from climbing on top of each other.

We’re talking about why we’re not having sex with our sex therapist.

We’re definitely going to have sex tomorrow.