By Kimberly Hallman

As I leaned down to pull the last of the socks out of the laundry basket, I sniffed, trying to keep my nose from dripping on the clean laundry. Sighing, I dropped the socks onto the bed and grabbed a tissue from the night stand. Even though it was already June, my allergies refused to wane. 

Maybe it was for the best. It was easy to blame my red eyes and sniffling on the high pollen count. That made it easier to hide the fact that I was crying more often these days. I was grateful for the explanation, but I had no idea what I would do once summer arrived in all of its hot, sweaty glory, and I could no longer blame the pollen. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could just pinpoint the reason for my foul mood. Every little thing sent me into a spiral of tears, or worse, the nearly irrepressible urge to punch something. It was like never-ending PMS, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 

As I paired off the socks and put them in the drawer, I examined my life – the same now as it had been for the past five years. I was still working from home, a change I made in preparation for the family we never started. Every morning, Dave and I got up at 6:00. He rushed out the door, sometimes remembering to kiss me before he left. I rolled out of bed, woke up my body with a half hour of yoga, showered, dressed, grabbed breakfast, and sat down at my desk for eight hours of monotony. Then, I cooked dinner, which ate in front of the T.V. 

It wasn’t the life I imagined.

We got married young and fast because we were so sure of ourselves and each other. I could remember how it felt back then – on our own for the first time, learning how to be adults together. Everything was new and different and exciting.

Now, I was on the sidelines, watching my friends get married and have children, left wondering what happened to that excitement in my life.

I’d never stopped loving him. But I found myself wondering where my life was going and how he was making it better. 

We weren’t trying anymore. No more big romantic gestures; even the little things had stopped. Not all at once, but little by little, Dave stopped opening doors for me. He stopped doing little chores around the house. He stopped grabbing me from behind, wrapping me in his big bear hugs. 

Honestly, I stopped, too. I stopped sneaking little notes into his pockets. I rarely bought him his favorite candy when I went shopping anymore. I often went to bed without saying “I love you.” 

I dropped the last of the socks and started crying. Big, heaving sobs that threatened to suffocate me. 

Was my marriage over? Did I let it fade away without even noticing? 

As I coasted through the rest of that day, my mind was a whirlpool of swirling thoughts. Is it my fault? What could I have done differently? Is it too late? What if he leaves me? 

Five o’clock rolled around, and I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Dave’s car pull in the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I had to say something.

I stared at the door until he walked through it. He startled when he saw me. “Hi,” he said with an awkward smile. He took in my expression, my fidgeting hands, my red eyes, and his smile turned into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

I wanted to stay calm and collected, to explain my concerns thoughtfully and logically. But all that went out the window the second he spoke. I burst into fresh sobs and threw my arms around his middle.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he repeated. “Did something happen?”

It took far longer than I care to admit to calm down enough to talk to him. Dave led me to the couch and sat down next to me, holding me and rubbing my back as I sobbed. Finally, I could breathe deeply enough to speak through my tears, and I told him everything. I told him my fears. I described the things he no longer did for me and the things I no longer did for him. I told him how much it hurt, how lonely I felt.

As the last of it spilled out of me, I realized how terrified I was. Dave was my best friend, the one person in my life who really knew me, and stayed by my side anyway. I wasn’t happy, but I loved him. Did I just ruin my own life? 

Dave looked at me long and hard. I sat uncomfortably under his silent gaze until he finally said, “You’re right. I guess we got too comfortable. I’m not sure I would have noticed if you hadn’t said anything, but it’s true. Neither of us really tries anymore, do we?”

There was a beat as I waited for him to continue, not trusting my voice to reply. 

“So, what do you want to do about it?”

His question surprised me. I expected him to be the first to make a decision. I’m not sure why, because he’d always sought my opinion before making any big decisions. I suppose it just all seemed so final that it never occurred to me that he might ask me what I thought.

He took my silence as an indication that I had an answer but was reluctant to say so for fear of hurting him.

“Are you asking for a divorce?”

Dave wouldn’t look at me, and I was terrified that he was hiding a hopeful expression. After all, if I wanted a divorce, he didn’t have to be the bad guy and ask for one himself.

But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily. If he wanted to leave me, I’d make him admit it and give me an explanation. 

“Do you think we should get a divorce?” I asked.

“God, no!” He finally looked up at me, and his eyes were filled with a dread I had never seen in him before. 

“Look.” He took my hands and held them between us. “You’re right. Things have changed between us. And I’m not sure if it’s your fault or mine. Probably both. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I dropped the ball. I’m sorry I hurt you.

“But I don’t think we’re done. I’m not ready to give up. I love you, and I don’t want to let you go without a fight. Please, say you’ll fight with me.”

And just like that, I wasn’t the only one crying anymore, and I realized that Dave’s tears meant that the thought of our marriage ending scared him as much as it did me, and that comforted me. It wasn’t over. There was still a chance.

“Yes, I’ll fight for us,” I said through my tears. “Of course, I’ll fight for us.” ‘’

*      *      *

Kimberly Hallman lives with her husband in suburban Pennsylvania. Hallman writes both short and long-form fiction in a variety of genres, but her favorites are science fiction and fantasy. Her work has been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine’s 101 Words. When she is not writing, Hallman can usually be found reading or crocheting.