“Do you love me?”
He paused what he was doing, blinking. I leaned into the kitchen counter, my nightshirt hanging off one shoulder. For a moment he simply stared at me. My lips pursed into a tight line as I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands fisting under my breasts. He stood there, silent. I closed my eyes.
“It’s not that hard of a question, you know.”
He turned away, returning to the stove. He didn’t answer. Then again, why should I think he would? He never answered. Pushing away from the counter, I made my way out of the room. He didn’t call me back, didn’t utter a word. I could smell dinner cooking, the scent heavy in the air as it seemingly followed me upstairs into our bedroom.
I dropped onto the bed, sinking into the mattress as I eyed the ceiling.
And, as I laid there, I couldn’t help but wonder why he never uttered those words.
It was a hopeless endeavor, really. Being in love with a memory was painful, even now.