I don't love you anymore.

That's what I meant to say, only it came out - “See you later.”

Your eyes flashed before you glanced away.  Even then, you knew.  You said nothing, though.  You had always been sensitive like that. Still, I should have said it.  

We had just finished another of our non-fights.  Excruciatingly polite statements that mean nothing and mask nothing.  Unable or unwilling to say what we really feel, we say everything else instead.  You take a deep breath, a sure sign that you're losing it, and I wash dishes.  I know it makes you crazy and, though I hate doing dishes, it gives me a perverse sort of pleasure to push that button.  

You exhale, a short staccato sound that speaks volumes, and tell me again that you have to go.  I merely nod, dropping a plate into the soapy water with a splash.  I hear you hesitate behind me, but I don't turn.  Another sigh, softer this time. Rejoicing in my small victory, I turn to you and somehow manage not to flinch away when you drop a kiss on my cheek.  As you walk away in your stupid rock tee-shirt and faded black jeans, I feel absolutely nothing.

The door shuts with a click and I immediately pull the plug from the sink and rinse off my hands.  You'll  see the dishes when you get home but I just cannot make myself care.  I grab your keys from where you always leave them and meet you at the door.  This time I don't bother to hide my irritation when you come in and stop short, still somehow surprised to find me waiting there.

As soon as you're gone I sit at the kitchen table. The coffee has finished brewing, the scent pungent and comforting, but I don't pour myself a cup.  There aren't any clean ones.  Expecting a wave of irritation, I stare at the deep red wall, but nothing comes.  This wall had caused another one of our non-fights.  I had suggested a deep, warm yellow.  You wanted red.  I gave in, the same way I always do.  

I lift a finger, touch the semi-gloss paint, let it drop.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here when I hear your key in the door.  An hour at least.  I stand just in time to see you walk in, still wearing those stupid clothes from high school even though you know I hate them.  There's a bag in your hand – Dinner.  I suppress a sigh as you smile at me, trying to pretend that there's nothing wrong.  

You press me back into my chair and start on dinner.  You don't ask what I want, but you never do.  I think you must be afraid of what you'll learn.  You don't mention the dishes as you chop vegetables and saute chicken.  The rice is boiling over, but you ignore it.  Again.

I stand suddenly and you glance up, face puzzled, as I walk over and pull the rice off the burner.  I stalk  out of the kitchen, unable to do this even one more time.  You're following me, hands fluttering uselessly as you try to figure out how to fix this.  To fix us. Ignoring you, I shuffle through a week's worth of mail looking for my keys.  I finally find them beneath your notebook - not where I left them. With a deep breath I turn to look at you.

I'll see you later.

That's what I meant to say.  It came out - “I don't love you anymore.”