Her discontent presses down like humidity, tainting everything it touches. He scrubs the pan, hunching over the sink, channeling his guilt.
“What would you like for Christmas?” he asks, bracing himself for what is to come
She is silent a tad longer. Her voice when it appears is wistful.
“To be understood.”
Another day, he would dismiss it as dramatic. This time, however, he capitulates.
“You remember when we dated,” she continues softly.
“You knew what song I listened to last. You knew if I eyed something at the store a second longer. You knew me like I wanted you to know me. I saw it as a promise. You saw it as the end game.”