Something that means something to me…
She sits by the window, watching him outside. She sits in shadow, a mug in her hands, tracing the rim with a finger. She things about things, how they are, why they are.
She sees him outside, in the light, sitting by their dog, looking off into the distance, one hand patting slowly. She wonders what he is thinking about, what she might have done wrong, what guilt he is placing upon himself.
She turns those thoughts back upon herself, thinking about what she has done wrong, putting the guilt upon herself. A sigh, looking into her tea, wishing that she could read the tea leaves and find an answer in them.
She looks up, seeing him still outside, now resting his chin on his knees, their dog now looking at him. Wiping tears away, she walks to their kitchen, putting her mug into the sink, leaning against the countertop and thinking.
There should be happiness, there should be smiles. There should be more than what she must do, what he must as well. She still feels him inside of her, always. But she knows that wane smile, he knows her own. She knows nothing has changed inside of them, their love is just as strong as ever. Their lives haven’t changed, she knows this. But other things have.
She hears the front door open, he coming inside. She doesn’t move from the counter, looking out the small window there to the house next door. She listens to their dog’s paws clicking on the kitchen floor, then stopping beside her.
He comes close, standing there beside her. She wants to say something, but doesn’t know where to start. She hears the rustling of his hand in their dog’s cookie box, then the sound of their dog munching beside her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him resting his hands on the counter with her. He isn’t looking out the window, he’s looking at the counter. She wants to say something, to try to understand why things are as they are. He starts to say something, but doesn’t quite manage to do so.
Closing her eyes, she rests her head upon his shoulder, then feels his cheek touch against her own. Behind them both, their dog lays there, watching them both.
It doesn’t matter who says the first word, only that the words are spoken, because they need to be.
“Talk to me. Please?”
And so they do, tears and all…