I knew she was cooking supper, delectable, with only my pleasure in mind, but I pushed it away, my appetite quashed by my preoccupation with all the times I failed to appreciate her.
She told me about her day, every detail, all animated and smiling but I couldn’t hear it, feeling too guilty for all those times I didn’t listen.
She was interested in how my day went and peppered me with questions – not understanding that I couldn’t answer or engage because I knew she was no longer interested in me.
She came to sit and put her arms around me but I couldn’t accept her affection, too full of remorse for all the times I pushed her away.
She wanted to make love but I was too busy lamenting our loss of intimacy and that she no longer found me attractive.
She loved me but I couldn’t accept it because I knew I was unlovable.
She forgave me but I couldn’t believe it because I knew I was unforgivable.
She left me, proving that my intuitions were right all along.