after

They are done. It is over. And she thinks, to herself: Is that it? Is that all? Why don’t – why can’t; why won’t – I feel more? His scent, at one point almost intoxicating, is now just sweat, old, cold. She doesn’t love him less, but does she love him more? And shouldn’t she? Or shouldn’t it be at least different? Shouldn’t it be something other than what it was before, even if it was just moments? She wants to talk with him, ask him if he ever has those sorts of questions, those sorts of doubts, but he’s already asleep. He works hard. He works long hours. He’s got other things on his mind. But this is important to her. Yet, she doesn’t ask, but she does wonder, to herself, about that, too: why doesn’t she ask him? Is she afraid of the answer? Or afraid that he will act as if, if not say outright, that she’s making way too much of nothing? So, she doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak. She just sidles in closer, hoping that his body will provide some warmth, the needed kind.