Finally, it’s over. Sex with my overweight husband has been bad as long as I can remember.

Feeling like I was being smashed because of his weight, the taste of sweat, and him coming inside me after two minutes. And having to fake my orgasm so that he won’t be pissed off for a week. When was my last orgasm with him? Ten years ago? Twenty years ago? I cannot remember.

“I love having sex with you,” Hans gasps. The short time exhausted him; he is panting.

With disgust, I look at Hans with rolls of fat on his belly and decide to say just good night. I know from experience that falling asleep to his snoring is as likely as my winning a Nobel Prize.

How did I arrive here? An unattractive, unsuccessful husband who, as the icing on the cake, is also a disaster in bed. The problem? I have been very successful as a manager at an international company, and he has been unsuccessful with his many attempts to build his own companies. If I get divorced, half of my assets will be his.

No way. I have been working my ass off for the last twenty years, and the major contribution this person has made to our marriage has been taking out the trash.

I grab my blanket, walk out to the living room, and hit the light switch. There, resting on the table right beside my skydiving rig, is a book about skydiving.

Why is my useless husband reading about my hobby? He never cared about me, only about having sex with me.

While thinking about the worst decision of my life, marrying this person, I fall asleep and dream about beautiful, young men with defined muscles.

Since it’s Sunday, I’m preparing breakfast for us: fried eggs with mushrooms. It’s my husband’s favorite food; mine as well, just minus the mushrooms. I’ve always despised them — a detail that works to my advantage today.

Hans is already sitting at the table. Once an attractive man, he now has many kilos too much, a double chin, almost no hair, and thick glasses. The opposite of beauty.

“Are you going skydiving today?” Hans asks.

“Yes, I am planning to go. Why are you reading a book about skydiving, by the way?”

“I just want to learn a bit about your hobby. I thought maybe I could learn it and then we could go skydiving together?”

“Hans, don’t get me wrong, but the last time you did any sports was 15 years ago. There is no way that you will go skydiving with me. First, you need to lose a lot of weight.”

If my answer disappointed Hans, his expression gives nothing away.

“Maybe I should start eating healthier? Tomorrow I will start, but today I will still enjoy my fried eggs.”

“You are right, tomorrow you can start, and today you can still enjoy your tasty food,” I say.

I watch him shovel the eggs into his mouth with a forced smile in place.

“It makes me happy to see you enjoy your food, darling.”

“Thank you, darling,” Hans says.

I grab my parachute from the garage, get it into my car, and leave. I always look forward to my skydiving, but today is special.

As I start the engine, I glance back at the house. In a few hours, the mushrooms that he picked yesterday (the only thing in his life that resembles an exercise) and that I swapped this morning with almost identical-looking toxic ones will destroy his liver. By the time I land my jump, he’ll think he just has a stomach bug — unaware that he’s already past the point of no return.

When I arrive at the small airport, I greet the pilot, Jack. An attractive man, younger than me, with muscular arms. He is married, but today I feel he gazes at my naked legs in my shorts a bit too long. I will ask him to have a drink with me soon.

“All ready to go?” Jack asks, smiling at me.

“Yes, all ready. Let’s take off.”

Before entering the plane, I perform my usual checks. Chest strap tight, leg straps secure, and both deployment handles sitting firmly in their pockets. Everything looks perfectly in place, so I put my parachute on my back.

The small plane takes off; I love flying in these small planes, how they bounce back and forth in the wind. Feels like pure life. After five minutes, we have reached our target height and destination.

I have jumped so many times that it doesn’t take me any willpower to jump.

I love the feeling of flowing through the air, and I just jump.

Today I enjoy falling through the air especially because a new life awaits me. I can’t wait to date again and meet new men. It cannot get any worse than with my still-to-be-husband, anyway.

It’s time. I reach down to my hip, grip the rubber pull handle of the parachute, and yank it.

Nothing happens.

My hand flies upward, but instead of feeling the jerk of the main canopy opening, I’m holding a useless, severed piece of rubber. The cord behind it has been cleanly cut.

Panic hits my chest. I reach frantically for the emergency backup handle, pull it as strong as I can, and that grip breaks completely free in my hand, too.

There is nothing left to pull.

I realize I underestimated my husband.

How could I be so stupid? Marrying the wrong husband has not only cost me 20 years of bad sex, but now it also will cost me my life. A deep sadness overcomes me. What could my life have been?

But at least one thing we still had in common, so the marriage was not a complete waste: I understand now that he hated me as much as I hated him.

Maybe we will get on better on the other side. I will be there in two minutes; my husband still has a few days.

I just close my eyes and enjoy the feeling of my free fall for the last time.

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