Blue Eyes and Other Sources of Drowning

When Loving Became a Chore

The sound of you coming home through the door is followed by a kiss so brisk it barely brushes my cheek. You almost forgot to kiss me. You had to back track the step you took past me. Your fleeting appearances of affection are something you feel required to do, like loading the dinner plates into the dishwasher.

All the little instances have added up like the layers of dust on our foyer fan. From 'our' room only I can see the thick coating of patheticness I've been desperately hiding from family and friends. Thoughts cross my mind such as 'when was the last time you slept in the same bed as me?' The forgotten coffee cups you swore you'd clean up 'later' have created marked rings on the maple wood desk. Memories of the times we waited on the steps before a friend's house and you didn't hold my hand until the door opened. In a party full of strangers, you stopped caring when a loud huff escaped your body when I asked you to wrap your arm around me. I don't think you even notice anymore. You have stopped trying to convince anyone, even me.

I remember having to beg you to take your starving eyes off of me at family dinner. Now you see common conversation as necessary as a weekly mopping of the floor.

I was once your brand-new house, where polishing the mirror revealed the rewarding reflection of you and me, I forever thought would keep you smiling. Now, after so many years, I am bookshelves of stories I want to tell that you only see as something in need of dusting, and I am endless piles of laundry full of shirts that have forgotten your touching. It is painstakingly obvious that I am another box to check off on your long to do list.

All because loving me became your chore.