He had memorized the sound her footsteps made but did not know what would mend the wounds that his words had caused her. Disagreements weren’t unusual. They littered their house like the Post-It notes she was always scribbling to herself. Each room of their tiny house was smeared with an argument. On the rickety kitchen table, they had a fight about her forgetting the groceries. On their perpetually unmade bed, they had a spat about him always being suspicious of her many guy friends, even though she swore up and down that all of them were either gay or taken or just plain not interested in her. Arguments could hiccup at odd moments, like when they once argued about bills when they shared a showered.

But this one, this one argument, was a full-on gory battle, and he was still trying to figure out how to put his entails back into his gut. They had eviscerated each other. Their blood was splattered on the walls. They had both reached into each other and had suffocated their souls. That was the danger of loving someone for so long. They knew how to make each hurt, maybe more than they knew how to make each other heal.

Every word she said to him did not excuse every word he had said to her. And all the “I’m sorry’s” in the world were too hollow. The very expression turned to ash in his mouth. He asphyxiated on the elusive smoke. What could he do? What could he say?

He heard her footsteps below, heard her keys clank onto the kitchen counter. He heard the rustle of clunking and clanging pots and pans. Curiosity outweighed the anxiety, and he crept downstairs.

Her beautiful natural hair was a bush of curls. It bounced slightly as she fluttered from counter to cabinet to drawer to stove to fridge. She was cooking up something with potatoes, peas, onions, and a thousand or two spices. Wordlessly, he watched her. Thankfully, she ignored him. They occupied the same space but were in completely different star systems. He gazed at her through a telescope, watched her burn brightly from trillions of light years away.

He sat at the kitchen table, still sticky from last night’s spilled soda. Whatever she was cooking gave off scents that exploded into the kitchen like fireworks, then blended together like the smoky aftermath. When all the ingredients were put away, he sponged and set the table. She brought the meal with it still steaming in the pot. From what he could see and smell, it was some kind of Indian stew. She scooped up a heaping dose for herself and then for him. They sat on opposite sides of the war room and ate silently.

“Our relationship is dying,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, but he already knew.

“We no longer fight fair.”

“Did we ever?”

“We did, a long time ago. But we forgot, or maybe we don’t care enough anymore.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I still care.”

“I do too, but I’m starting to forget why.” A pause. Her words sunk into the floorboards like blood. “We need help.”

“Yes.”

“We should see someone.”

“Of course.”

More pause.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“I think.”

That was good enough for him.