I’ll tell you what made my first wife fall out of love with me — I was lazy. I didn’t help enough in the household. Didn’t really cook, didn’t clean much. I took, and I took, and I didn’t give. Hell, even in bed I was a selfish lover.
Everything was about my enjoyment, my pleasure, my fun. Hers hardly came into play. I wasn’t a good man. Wasn’t a kind mind. Wasn’t a helpful man. I was just kind of useless to tell you the truth, and I took her for granted.
That’s how love dies, usually… we take people for granted, and they slowly fade out of our lives. The love dies. It doesn’t die overnight. Doesn’t die in an instant. But it does die. Slowly, but surely. You feel it, at times. And make half-hearted attempts to restore things the way they once were. But part of you is in denial.
Believes she won’t leave. Believes she’ll always be around, she’ll always be there, an option, a lover, a wife, someone glued to you, a part of you. And she isn’t. She’s a human being. She has feelings. You don’t want to deal with them. You’re busy. You’re doing your own thing.
One day, the bomb drops. But you could have heard it whistling through the sky coming towards you, if only you had stopped for a minute and really listened.
You didn’t… you didn’t, and when the impact hits you, you are in a state of shock that lasts years. You had love. And selflessly killed it, one tiny little stab at time, unaware of the murder until you found the corpse.
