"Was it something I said?" He asked as she writhed around to the opposite shoulder accompanied by an exasperated sigh.
"No."
"Was it something I did?" He retorted.
"No. It was nothing. Just--nothing. Now, please, turn off the ******* light so I can sleep."
Defeated, he reached over his bedside table with weeks worth of night-time water cups bungling up his path to the switch and turned out the light.
She was gone in the morning.
He woke up without even noticing at first. She usually woke up before him to have fresh coffee brewed, accompanied with a poached egg or two, but those were better days. He knew they were growing apart, but he never imagined he would wake up to an empty house. He felt her falling out of love-- and it was all his fault.
The little things he never used to notice seem much bigger in hindsight--but, as they say, "hindsight is 20/20." The way her hand fit so perfectly in his as they would take their nightly walks. Her stories of her workday that used to deem a nuisance to his ears now seem like a beautiful aria of yesterday's loss.
He stepped out into the hallway and felt a cold breeze coming from the living room. He slowly sauntered from the doorway with his head held low, feet scuffling the carpet. He stepped in to the opening of the living room to find the windows facing the rising morning sun wide open.
"--the ****?" he muttered. He hated the cold, and it was this particular morning that seemed colder than it actually was. He quickly scurried to the open french-door-type windows and slammed them shut. His head came slamming against the panes followed by a lull of silence, and then a deep and heavy sigh.
"****."