We had been sitting on the sofa after dinner, and I had reached for his hand.
“Do you remember when we used to talk for hours?” I asked.
He glanced up from his phone.
“Of course.”
“When was the last time we did that?”
He gave a tired laugh.
“Debra, we’re not twenty-five anymore.”
“I know that. I’m not asking you to take me dancing every night. I just miss you.”
For a moment, I thought he might put his phone down and listen.
Instead, he sighed.
“Can we not do this tonight? I’m exhausted.”
He kissed my forehead, went upstairs, and left me sitting alone in the living room.
I remember watching the staircase long after he had disappeared.
That night, I cried quietly into a cushion so he wouldn’t hear me.
The next morning, I made his favorite breakfast.
That was how I had learned to deal with disappointment. I swallowed it, cleaned up the evidence, and tried again.
