There was a slight limp in his speech, like he had been kicked too many times as a child. She didn't hear it when he talked to other people; only when he held her right up close to his chest and kissed her forehead and told her he loved her. It's how she knew he really meant it.
She made their bed every morning, cooked his breakfasts, ironed his shirts, smiled instead of raging at the dishes in the sink and the socks on the floor and the toilet seat and the shoes in the entryway and the lopsided way he parked his car. She mowed the lawn when he was too tired, massaged his shoulders when he was tense, deferred to his choice in movies, and supported his effort to make friends with colleagues. She tried at all times to be all things for him, and when, at the end of a long day, she threw herself into bed next to him and listened to his breathing. Of course, she had no way of knowing how little he saw the things she did, how often he overlooked her efforts, and how frequently he violated her wishes without knowing. She had no way of knowing that all he wanted from her was for her to hold him like he held her, and confess her love to him like he did for her.
There's no moral here; people are just different.
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I like that the way HE parks is lopsided. My dad would take offense at that, but I once backed his truck into a space with only about six inches to spare in the back and on each side, and I did it without hitting anything. He did the same thing and hit things. Well, okay, so maybe he has done it dozens of times and only hit things once, and I've only done it the one time. STILL, I like to rest on my laurels.
ReplyDeleteDo the things that she smiles at bother her, or are they just things most women would dislike? Sometimes I wonder why people don't just . . . talk.
And then, usually, I remember.
It's true. People don't talk. And perhaps that's for the best? (probably not)
ReplyDeleteI used to think so (that it was for the best). But now I don't.
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