He pulled the beer back from his lips, disappointed.
The beer was empty. Had been for twenty minutes now.
He thought about getting up from the porch swing, going into the kitchen and grabbing another.
Too risky. Might wake her.
The September weather seemed to disagree, however, sending a cool gust of wind through the cracks of the floorboards beneath him, crashing against his exposed legs.
Still not moving, he thought. Not yet.
And yet, even with all of the quietude of the night, there was no peace in his mind. Not this night. Not any nights before. And there didn't seem to be any in nights of the foreseeable future.
They were not happy. He had come to that determination a long time ago. It had never been spoken aloud, but it was known.
The way they walked past one another, eyes at the floor. The cries he could hear from their room sometimes. The very reason he was currently losing feeling in his toes and fingers outside.
If he looked back, there were no signs warning him of this. There were good memories. Great memories. He was happy. She was happy. He woke her each day with a kiss on the forehead, and she went to bed each night whispering 'I love you' in his ear.
He had proposed under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. When his brother had been struck and killed by a drunk driver, she had held him for nights, promising to only let go when he asked. He didn't. He couldn't.
They had created a child together. Life had become brighter.
But somewhere along the line, that light had flickered. Quickly, too quickly for him to really think twice.
And then it burnt out.
When exactly the light had gone dark he didn't know, but they should have acknowledged it, should have accepted it. Instead they turned their backs, closed their eyes, as the weights around their ankles became heavier.
They ignored the signs, holding on to the best of what was left, even if their best remained seated in the past.
She's part of my life, he thought. Just not part of my future.
They were birds stuck in a cage, aware of the bars around them, singing, begging, for freedom.
He knew all this, had come to terms with it, but felt powerless, perhaps even fear, to change it.
So here he sat, night after night, holding on to an empty bottle, both literally and metaphorically as it were.
Where would he sit tomorrow? The porch again? The couch in the basement? The local barstool?
No.
He would do it. He would stop thinking about it and just do it.
He would get another beer.
Oh, and he'd talk to her.
Eventually.
