Yesterday we had a really nice evening. I mean, it wasn't particularly nice, but nothing bad happened either. We ordered a pizza, and sat on the floor eating it, with a bottle of wine. He never likes to eat at the kitchen table. He told me some story about a co-worker of his, and for a moment I felt like this was a normal relationship. That all changed in the morning.
He sits on the couch now, reading a book, ignoring me as he usually does. No matter the book, it's always more interesting than me. Than why doesn't he just leave me? I actually got up the nerve to ask him that a few days ago. His answer - because he loves me. He thinks he knows, but he has no idea what love is.
Love, I told him, is something else. Love is a flower, a cup of coffee, a conversation. Love is fun and scary, bold and dark. Love is a kiss, a smile, a child. What does he know about love? He turned away, and continued reading his book. He didn't say another word to me for the rest of the day, but I could tell he wasn't thinking about what I had said either. He was just in his own world. He...
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