he
does not love his wife anymore. at one time, he did. he said the words and
meant it more than he had ever meant anything. but now he looks at her and
can't see her the way that he uesd to. every morning he gets up with the
sun long before she awakens and goes down to the basement where they keep
their old photo albums. he looks through the old peices of coloured paper
at the two of them together, happy in their youth. he doesn't understand
why he does not love her anymore. she still makes his breakfast every morning.
she still irons his shirts and lays them out for him. he could possibly
understand if perhaps he had fallen for another woman, but there is no other
woman. there is no love, either. these days he has to pretend to keep her happy. he sometimes goes overboard to show how much he cares, when in reality he cares very little. to him she is like a roommate, or rather, an enchanting and intelligent pet. he buys her flowers and candy for no apparent reason, little cards that say "i love you" on them. he awakens her with kisses and makes love to her more passionately and considerately than before. perhaps if he knew that she felt exactly the same way, he wouldn't feel so bad. |