Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Love is a sad song.

She tossed something in the trashcan and stepped out of the bathroom just as he walked in the front door – late. She smoothed her shirt and fixed a quavering smile on him. He darted a glance at her, then swung open the door to the hall closet between them.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, his voice muffled by the closet full of coats.

She smiled and leaned against the wall, thrusting out her hip and staring at the closet door. “Nothing special,” she chirped. He impatiently exhaled the closet’s mothball-scented air and shut the door.

“Sounds exciting,” he dryly drawled.

She frowned and pressed herself flat against the wall. “We can make it exciting. Candles, a tablecloth, real napkins – I promise I’ll make it exciting. I’ll even open that bottle of…” She stopped as if rethinking her next words. Ignoring this, he mumbled, “Did you clean up your puke mess from this morning?” She pushed herself off the wall and into his arms, startling him.

“I love you,” she breathed. He looked down at her awkwardly.

“I can’t do this, Louise,” he said, shoving her away. “I have some papers you need to read and sign.”

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