The woman and the man sat together on the floor.  Finally, the man reached for
her shoulder, breaking the awkward silence, "What do you want me to do?"  His
voice was deep and rough, but he spoke quietly hiding his frustration.  She
didn't answer and the silence returned.  He almost said something else, but
thought better of it.  Instead, he stared blankly at the window of the small
bedroom.  Any other day, he would have found the soft pounding of the rain
against the glass to be pleasant and soothing, but at the moment, it was only
a bitter reflection of his mood.

He shifted his attention back to the woman.  He studied the play of the
candlelight, warm and red, in the curls of her hair, dark and brown.  He
squeezed her shoulder, the silk of her nightgown sliding smoothly over her
shoulder.  He moved closer, wrapping her in his arms.  Burying his face in her
hair, he inhaled, her sweet floral scent entering his nose and throat.
Breathing deeper, he felt her enter his lungs and even his heart.

He hugged her tightly from behind, remembering only an hour before, when he
had kissed the woman, when he had held her body close to his, touching her,
loveing her.  In the silence after their lovemaking, he lay next to her
admiring her face.  He didn't understand her mood.  There was a time when they
would make love, then sit up half the night, laughing and telling stories.
Tonight, she only stared at the ceiling, her expression blank.  He had asked
her what was wrong.

Now she sat silent, as still as stone in his arms.  He whispered her name.
She didn't answer.  She only lowered her head and stared at her feet, picking
at the polish on her toenails.  He rested his chin against her shoulder.  He
wanted to cry, but wouldn't.  He whispered her name, but she didn't move.  So
he sat and stared at the candle burning across the room, watching it shrink
and eventually go out.  He whispered her name one last time, answered only by
her sobs in the darkness.

-gm