Prompt Series, #2 | the silence that won't go away + "Say it."

Silence. Silence. Silence that won't go away. There's no noise at all. Hasn't been. Not for years, it felt like.

She remembers what noise used to be: car horns out the window; birds on the telephone wire; children in the playground across the street; coffee machine's beeps; turning of newspaper or magazine pages; front door opens - pause - I love you before the door clicks shut.

She remembers what noise used to be: lips kissing hers; water from the shower; rustling of bed sheets in the morning, then night, then morning again, and so on; lips kissing hers; I love you; lips kissing hers; finger nails tapping on the dinner table; wine glasses clinking; lips kissing hers; good night and I love you.

She remembers what noise used to be: nothing close to silence.

And here she is, her wife across the table, waiting to hear it again - I love you - because it hasn't been said in weeks and, God, she wants to hear it again, say it again, hear it again every second from this woman for the rest of her life.

So she tries to say it, and she does to no response.

"Say it?" she asks, as her wife opens the door to go to work.

I love you.