For Danelle, on Her Birthday (almost)

“I wish I could do that,” he sniffed. “I get all choked up when we watch that film.”

She paused, thoughts that asked what kind of man cried at films ran through her mind. She gave a curt “uh-huh” and got up from the couch. She walked to the fridge and took out a can of Coke. “Want one?”

He shook his head. “I’m too—“ He stopped to fan his tears. “I’m too—“ He broke down. She rolled her eyes and popped the drink.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Come sit with me.” He put his hand down where he wished her to sit. She walked back to him and dropped, socked feet out. He groped for her hand and found it full of ice-cold drink; he took her arm.

“You know I love you, right?” She chose to nod in lieu of sound. He found the action lacked the weight he would have liked. “Well, don’t you?”

“Yes. I know you love me.” Her voice was sour.

“What’s wrong?”

Could he have a bit less sap in his voice? she thought. I hate it when he tries to get me to talk: it’s crap and he’s full of it.

He kept his sweet note and asked once more. She took back her arm from his hand. “I’m tired. Good night.” She got up and left the room. His eyes teared up.

Good night.