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.
 
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