It could have been the curt responses, or the silences. They years of not saying "Thank you." It could have been our dwindling sex life that I couldn't seem bothered to reheat. But, if I'm being honest, I think it was when I went to kiss her good night and coughed in her face. I laughed. It was an accident. But everything from there just seemed to go sour. It was a tickle in my throat, it was her perfume. The scent I'd insisted she buy. The scent she wore just for me. How many times did my brain tell her one thing and my body another? I'd like to see those tally marks. Those prison walls, covered in groups of five, the etchings of a man trying to keep from going mad. Which is, I guess, what we were trying to do all along.
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