As your hips grow rounder and wider, though not unflattering, and you choose not to look me in the eye for longer than a coin toss, I still ask.
And your response is: "A few weeks ago. No, not too well. Actually quite badly."
The dishwasher cycles.
I know all of this.
Nothing of the details of her.
For I only know that what my sleep will show me. My intuition fills the spaces and places names, but until you speak..
I ask you.
Simply. Earnest as I come.
You respond.

Just walk away.

I need no more pain.