She thinks about what made her fall for him in the first place. Her face lights up when nostalgia washes over her heavy eyelids, but her smile soon falters when reminded at how distant the memory is. What is the point? Who he was then is not who he is now; the man she fell for has been gradually replaced each passing day. New layers added, old ones shed.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps he has always been this way, and each day has merely been chipping through his surface like tiny glass fractures until one day, the glass shatters. All that had been underneath is exposed for her to see. And maybe she has been chipping away all these years too, her delusions coming undone, her fabrications seeing the light of reality.
She cooks and cleans and says nothing when he comes home in the middle of the night, reeking of alcohol and sweat, when he plops onto his side of the bed and subconsciously steals most of the blanket to leave her shivering in the dark. She says nothing of his messes, of his stained shirts and underwear littered on random pieces of furniture, says nothing when the dishes pile up to the ceiling or when the trash is at its tipping point. She takes care of him because that's what he needs, and because maybe she needs it too. To be needed.
Needed. What about wanted? To be wanted; to feel wanted. Her days are spent at home picking up his messes and his days are spent away earning money to make those messes. And when he finally comes home, when she finally gets to see him, he either bolts out the door and heads for Moe's, or he's tethered to the sofa, absorbed in late night television.
They do spend time together. Sure. But lately, any communication of desire to be in the other's presence has been one-sided, initiated solely by her. She wishes once that he would ask her out on a date, that he suggest they cuddle in bed to watch a movie. It would be nice to not feel like the only one wanting, the only one trying, the only one withering away on the inside like her love is an unwatered flower.
When was the last time he called her from work? Or helped out with the kids? Or the last time he showed any shred of appreciation for all the effort she puts into their relationship?
She doesn't really mind the messes. No, the dishes, the laundry, the cooking… those are the easy parts. What she really fears is that their relationship is stuck so deep in a cycle of comfortability that he thinks he can stop trying altogether, that he has already stopped trying. To cherish her. To not take her for granted. To show her—not tell her—that he loves her.
On the nights he is too drunk to come home until the following morning, she cries herself to sleep, but softly, so the kids can't hear her misery. She is alone, waiting. Waiting for the door to open, for a phone call, for something. When he finally does stagger through the front door, sun already risen and eyes sunken and kisses sloppy, all she can do is smile weakly before heading into the kitchen to get breakfast started.
She exhales a long sigh. When he asks if anything's wrong, she says nothing.
Fin.