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John and you had always had a good sex life. Sure you weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, that’s a lie, you were. But you had sex every day. This last weeks was odd though, you hadn’t had sex at all. Not because of distance. Which had never stopped you before.
He just. . . didn’t want to.
You were now laying in bed. John was out taking dog for a walk. But then you heard the door open and the sound of the dog’s paws pattering on the floor. You sat up in bed and saw John come into the room. You observed him fully for the first time. His actions were all muted and robotic, when he sat down next to you he didn’t even acknowledge you. Let alone stare at you like he always did.
“John,” you call out. Internally, you were practically pleading for him to talk to you.
“What?” he grumbles. You grabbed him, forcing him to look at you. When you made eye contact, all you saw on his face was disappointment, anger, and grief.
“What’s wrong?” you ask. Your initial selfishness was gone. He sighs then looks down at his left hand. There, bright, loud, and taunting, was his wedding ring. You paused. Unable to move or speak. You knew John had been married before of course, but you had never seen him wear his ring.
“Today is the day Helen died, I’ve been dreading it all week and now it’s here and now I don’t know what to do,” he rambles. You immediately pull him into your chest instinctively and pet his hair.
“It’s ok, babe, it’s ok. She wanted you to be happy, remember?” you remind him, referencing the note she wrote for him right before she died.
“Yeah. . . but I don’t think this is what she meant,” he rasps, nuzzling into your chest regardless.
“John, you are happy, no? You have Dog, and me. Yes, you are still mourning her. You have every right to. She was the love of your life. I understand that,” you say that. He looks up at you, tears in his eyes.
“I don’t deserve you; and you don’t deserve this. You deserve someone who actually loves you. . . who wants to be the love of your life and feels the same about you. Not some old man who hardly feels anything anymore,” he splutters out at a very rapid pace.
“Shh, Jonathan. Listen to yourself. You love me, and you do feel. I know you do. You show me it every day. When you play with Dog the second he comes up to you with a ball. When you hold me tight and refuse to let go. When you look at pictures of Helen and still tear up. That’s love, Baby, all of it. All in different forms; and it’s beautiful. I love it, I love you, John. So I won’t leave you, I won’t let you kick me out. I will help you through this day, and the next. Because I love you. I will always love you,” you declare. In his eyes, you now saw hope. Wishing for things to be better. Maybe it was because you looked at him with all the love in the world. Maybe because of the way you held his face in your hands just as he always did after a bad day at work. But something made him stop crying and kiss you. The kiss was salty with his old tears. His face was cold and wet. But it was all passionate and loving.
He held you in his lap for a while, holding onto you like his life depended on it. He kissed your hair, murmuring thanks to you in all forms of languages he knew, including love. He needed you. Not sexually, just emotionally. You were willing to wait however long it took for him to be ready. Until then, you would love him no matter how long it took or how much energy it required.
Because that was love; and you promised you would love him anyways. All day, every day. Until the day that both of you died. Because that was your boyfriend. He will be your husband. He loved you; and you loved him. Forever and always.