I sit down at the kitchen table and huff. The huff is unintentional. Or maybe subconscious.
He doesn’t say anything. He turns away as though he doesn’t even care.
He didn’t wrap his arm around me. Or ask what’s wrong. He didn’t smile or say something reassuring.
Even a bad joke right now would be better than this silence.
This is it, I guess; the end of us. I know things haven’t been right, but I thought we’d sort them out; I thought it was one of those petty little things. We’ve been together six years; it should take more than this to break us up.
He rinses a few dishes, wipes them. He’s fussing, to avoid me. He’s humming to himself; one of those annoying tics he’s got when he’s stressed.
I lean forward and bang my head against the table. Gently at first, then a little more firmly, until I can feel the impression of the table on my skin. I grumble to myself; my own little tic, making unintelligible noises in place of words.
I have no words.
I have a tear, though, dripping down my nose and onto the table.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder; he smiles when I look up; he offers me a bowl of peanut butter and ice cream. My favourite.
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