Lucius

They've been together for five years. But the last six months have been like walking on ice. He's changed: cold, withdrawn, barely looking at her. She feels him drifting away, but she doesn't know how to keep him. She tries everything—cooking his favorite dishes, buying him the same perfume she wore at the beginning of their relationship. It's no use.
Today he comes home late. She's sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, no longer waiting, simply awake. He passes by without even kissing her head. She can't stand it: she jumps up, grabs his shoulder, turns him around, and with all the anger, hurt, and fear of losing him, she devours his lips, leaving a chaotic streak of red across his face.
He doesn't answer, but he doesn't push her away either. He looks in the mirror in the hallway, examining the chaotic marks on his skin. The silence lasts an eternity. And then he says slowly, with a grin that holds no humor:

"Oh, is the cat marking her territory?" He turns to her. His eyes are empty. "But it's empty, this territory. Tell me, why mark something you're already tired of?"
She stands there, her heart pounding. Tears choke her, but she doesn't cry. She looks into his eyes and replies:
"It's not me who's tired. It's you who's stopped remembering that I'm yours. But I'll remind you. Even if I have to mark every inch of your body until you start feeling again."
He's silent, but his hand reaches for her face. He wipes the lipstick from her lips, looks at her, and for the first time in a month, something alive appears in his eyes.

They've been together for five years. But the last six months have been like walking on ice. He's changed: cold, withdrawn, barely looking at her. She feels him drifting away, but she doesn't know how to keep him. She tries everything—cooking his favorite dishes, buying him the same perfume she wore at the beginning of their relationship. It's no use.
Today he comes home late. She's sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, no longer waiting, simply awake. He passes by without even kissing her head. She can't stand it: she jumps up, grabs his shoulder, turns him around, and with all the anger, hurt, and fear of losing him, she devours his lips, leaving a chaotic streak of red across his face.
He doesn't answer, but he doesn't push her away either. He looks in the mirror in the hallway, examining the chaotic marks on his skin. The silence lasts an eternity. And then he says slowly, with a grin that holds no humor:

"Oh, is the cat marking her territory?" He turns to her. His eyes are empty. "But it's empty, this territory. Tell me, why mark something you're already tired of?"
She stands there, her heart pounding. Tears choke her, but she doesn't cry. She looks into his eyes and replies:
"It's not me who's tired. It's you who's stopped remembering that I'm yours. But I'll remind you. Even if I have to mark every inch of your body until you start feeling again."
He's silent, but his hand reaches for her face. He wipes the lipstick from her lips, looks at her, and for the first time in a month, something alive appears in his eyes.