All through breakfast, I caught Barbara giving me that same funny look, as if she knew something was wrong and she couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she wasn't quite interested enough to actually come right out and ask me about it.
What's happened to us? We used to care so deeply about each other's every thought; now, it's been reduced to a matter of mild curiosity, at best. Where did we go wrong?
"I told you not to wear that tie with that shirt," Barbara pointed out as she wolfed down an English muffin.
"Let's go someplace nice for dinner tonight," I suggested, surprising myself as well as Barbara. Someplace... romantic."
"You know I've got that meeting tonight." She was annoyed. "You're going to have to fix your own supper. Don't wait up for me." And in what appeared to be one fluid motion, she picked up her plate, gave it a quick rinse in the sink, dropped it into the dishwasher, and flew out the door.
I don't want to sound too harsh; Barbara's been a good wife, there's no way around that. She's put up with my moods for over ten years no mean feat in itself, I'm sure and she takes care of me in all the ways I need to be taken care of. Usually. And we still enjoy ourselves in bed. Usually. Not like it used to be, of course, but nothing to complain about.
But certainly not like it would be with Melissa...
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©1996 Henry Charles Mishkoff