A thousand love letters, hundred embraces, a lifetime of passionate silences, billion obsessions, and a child later, he gazed at her warm and familiar eyes as she brushed the greying and thinning strands of his hair with her delicate fingers.
Slowly, she spoke to him, “I think… I don’t like you that much anymore.”
His fantasies came to a sudden halt and his breath shortened. What to do next? He could interrogate her, or start a fight, or rudely walk out. However, he knew her too well, and he knew that she always spoke and behaved honestly. How could anyone be upset by someone’s honesty? It didn’t make sense for him to even inquire. He believed it. If that is how she feels, then that is how she feels, he thought.
He slowly sat up, not bitterly, but because there was nothing else to do now. He put on his jacket and took a deep breath as she remained lying on the bed; her eyes half closed, distant, and listless. He walked down the stairs with hands in his pocket. He needed something new to obsess about, and he thought maybe art would be it.