She loved him. There had never been a question of that, she had always loved him. But the first day that it occurred to he to leave him, it was over. She had never been the kind of woman who did or thought about things in a half-hearted manner. That was one of the things that had brought them together to begin with, the zeal for life, their utter devotion to everything they attempted. He had left that morning as he did every morning, before she was really awake, dropping a kiss on her forehead before slipping out. And he'd come home for lunch, as usual. The day, it was nothing out of the ordinary.

That was the horrible thought that had started all of this. It had come to her after he'd left the second time, after she waved goodbye to the man she'd sworn to spend the rest of her life with. In the beginning, that had been a beautiful thing. They were happy, blissful. They had always had their arguments; the same cynical nature that they both shared, the tendency to make snappish comments at things, had been one of the things that had drawn them together. But they were happy, weren't they? They were content. But she didn't want to be content, and if he was still the man she married, he didn't want to just be content, either.

She got up, made herself a cup of coffee, sat back down. It was mid-afternoon by now, and she'd been sitting for nearly four hours, but she'd hardly moved. And oh, god, she realized that the very things that made her love him were the very things that being with her had taken away from him. She put a hand to her mouth, already gone down a path of thought that, in spite of being convoluted and treacherous, could only lead to one destination. If she left him now, he would find someone else. Could she really handle that thought? The thought of him, her husband, loving, touching, holding someone else sent a wave of nausea over her.

She held her head in both hands, and took a deep, shaky breath. She wished she could wish away these thoughts, go back to her happy existence, but she knew in her heart that it was much too late for that, wasn't it?

He came through the door, bag in hand, and stopped in the doorway, watching her. In the setting sun, she saw him, in her mind's eye, the way she had always seen him. Same hair, same nose, mouth, lips she had kissed, the same solid form she had held and been held by. The same vivid eyes. And in that moment, she burned his face into her mind, tattooed his features on her heart forever.

She loved him, more than she had ever loved anyone, more than she had ever thought herself capable of loving anyone or anything. He lifted a hand, ran it through his hair, obviously aware that she was watching him. She could open her mouth right now, tell him that she loved him, make him dinner and take him to bed. She could still change her mind.

She looked down at the cold cup of coffee she hadn't touched since she made it, saw her reflection, overlaid on his in his mind, his silhouette against the glow of the western sun like a stencil in her heart that everything else must be compared to. Then, she looked back up at him, pressed her lips together, and took a deep breath, surprisingly steady.

"Leonard," she said, her own voice foreign as it broke the silence, "we need a divorce."