There is Confusion by Jessie Redmon Fauset

It had been increasingly easy for him to forget her. When he had first broken with Joanna, when he had written her that virtuous letter, Maggie's rooms, Maggie's arms were a haven. She was always ready to listen, always sympathetic. She met his advances halfway; if he asked for a kiss he got it at once. There was none of Joanna's half-real, half-coquettish withdrawal. No one could accuse Maggie of a lack of modesty. Peter would have been the first to fight such an accuser, but he found himself half-wishing that she were not quite so easy to approach.

Somehow life grew less stimulating. Presently they were settling down into the cosy, prosy existence of the long married couple. In the afternoons Peter came in -- he was usually playing with Tom at night -- they exchanged a word of greeting. Maggie gave him a dutiful kiss; there would be a word or two about the weather, his playing engagements, then silence. Presently Peter would say: "Mind if I look over the paper a moment, Maggie? I got up late this morning."