He’s sitting in his usual chair, staring into space, once a strong man now a shell, grey skin, pale lips, dead eyes that are empty just now, lips she had kissed, but not his now, a shell of the man she loved, duty keeps her here, spittle starts to run from those lips, she raises a tissue to wipe it away.
As she wipes its as if she’s wiping away the years, there was once pride in those lips, and steel in those eyes. Strong, and sexy, but with a cruel side, his way or no way, and she sits wiping the spit from his mouth, a thousand questions from him, all he’s asked before, all she’s answered a thousand times, and he stares into space. the questions about the dead are the hardest, the repeated pain of loss, but those questions are becoming few the time between longer, and she wipes his spit.
“Who are you?” he asks, “your wife” she replies again, “No” a puzzled look “my wife is much younger than you”, he’s no idea the pain he’s caused, and already forgotten it all, so she wipes the spit from his face and smiles, while breaking inside. And he’s looking at something not there, as empty as inside but occasionally a spark of recognition, but less frequent, and she wipes away his spit. And life goes around this circle, that can only end one way, spiralling slowly toward that fateful day.
