Love

She trailed the tip of her finger lightly along the curve of his earlobe, listening to the even tempo of his breath. She traced the shape of his jaw as her gaze lingered on the pout of his lips, now soft and vulnerable with sleep.

She felt her insides squeeze and twist. Almost painfully. Almost fearfully. Like on a too-fast elevator. Or a roller-coaster. Love?

Fierce possessiveness. An equally fierce resentment. I don’t want to share him. I don’t want him to own me.

My love. My life. My future.

In just these few short months he was already so much a part of her. His needs ahead of hers. His moods and wants dictated hers. When she ate. When she slept. When she showered. When she peed.

He didn’t even ask. Merely demanded. And expected his due.

She hurriedly jerked her hand away as he stirred. Rolled over. But didn’t wake.

I know more about him than he knows himself, she thought. Like he feels warmest on his toes and the back of his neck. Like he likes the crunchiness of sugar, but not anything too sweet. Like he can be incredibly generous even with his very favourite things but only if he got total devotion in return.

His hand clenched in some deeply felt dream. I can do anything to him, she thought. He’s totally in my power. The thought, ironically, made her feel more vulnerable than ever.

How did it come to this, she thought. Marriage was supposed to be light-hearted, fun. Bonding after a hard (but fulfilling) day at work.

Not this crushing responsibility. This crushing pride. This crushing love. This child they made together, she thought looking down at the still sleeping form.