My husband and I still have sex. We still go on dates. We still take family vacations. Nobody could call us “estranged.” It’s just that for the past four or five years, significantly predating my emotional affair, we seem to speak different languages, that old feeling of connection refusing to click into place, constantly getting stuck in the wrong groove. Maybe this is just what a long-term marriage looks like. Does my husband even think anything is wrong? He swings between chilliness and volatility lately, and I find myself acting overly polite toward him, like he is a customs official or a cop, knowing things will go more smoothly if I am “nice.” I used to be so intense that I exhausted him with my attempts at engagement. When I look at the early years of our relationship (when I loved him madly), the woman in those memories strikes me as a needy little dog perpetually trying to jump up on a too-tall couch, yapping the whole while. I don’t know what to make of the fact that my happiest marital years now also make me ashamed of myself. When we were first living together, he complained that I was too intense, too much, and three times made noise about breaking up, but then committed, became acclimated to my perpetual pursuit. If he’s noticed I’m no longer chasing, he hasn’t said so.