The Blue Journal by L.T. Graham

loved her, but she dismissed that idea as if it were utter nonsense. He did love her, he insisted again, but he was not prepared to explain how his love had changed over the years—that was something he could not bring himself to say. There was no way to describe how passion had given way to familiarity, how lust had been replaced by companionship.
    Instead he reminded her that they had children. They had history. They had shared moments that neither of them would ever live again. In some ways, he insisted, his love for her had grown richer over the years.
    â€œBullshit,” Fran responded.
    The Colellos were in the bedroom of their modest ranch-style house. Thomas was sitting on the loveseat in front of the bay window. Fran was pacing furiously back and forth in front of him, her pink cotton dressing gown flowing behind her. She puffed furiously on a cigarette, stopping her determined march only long enough to stub out the remains in a crystal ashtray and light another.
    Smoking, like her use of profanity, was a habit of recent vintage.
    â€œI wish I could believe you’re lying to both of us instead of just trying to fool me,” she said. “But I know you’re a deceitful, scheming bastard.”
    â€œTake it easy, will you please? We’re trying to have a conversation here.”
    â€œA conversation?” She took a long, theatrical look around the bedroom. “What a joke. Conversation is all we ever have in this room anymore.”
    â€œYou’re not fair, Fran. We’re trying to work things out. I’m seeing the therapist like you asked me to, right? You can’t expect miracles.”
    She forced a laugh so bitter it actually made him cringe. “A miracle? I guess it would be a miracle to think you’d want to fuck your own wife once in a while.” She uttered another empty chuckle. “That would be a miracle, wouldn’t it, fucking your own wife instead of one of your sluts?”
    â€œKeep your voice down, will you please? The kids’ll hear you.”
    â€œOh great, Thomas. Now you’re worried about the children. Let’s have a round of applause, shall we? First you go to a marriage counselor and now you’re worried about the kids. You’re the perfect husband.”
    â€œI never said I was perfect, goddamnit. I know I’m not perfect. But you’ve been getting yourself so worked up lately, I’m worried about you.” As soon as he said it, he wished he could take back every word, swallowing one letter at a time.
    â€œYou’re worried about me ,” Fran repeated in a mocking tone. She had stopped her aimless marching and now perched on the ottoman a few feet from her husband. She drew on the cigarette and exhaled a gray cloud of smoke in his direction. “I don’t want your goddamned pity,” she said through clenched teeth.
    â€œThis isn’t about pity,” Thomas Colello said quietly as he began to get to his feet.
    â€œSit down,” she snapped. “I don’t want you touching me.”
    Thomas sank back onto the loveseat. “Jesus Christ, Fran.”
    â€œDon’t Jesus Christ me,” she snarled, struggling without success to hold back the tears that were beginning to flow. “I want you to tell me why it’s better with someone else, some . . . some whore.” She struggled to speak more slowly now. “I want you to explain why you’re willing to humiliate me this way. I want to know why you act as if your dick is some sort of a divining rod you’re entitled to follow wherever it leads. Make me see all of that, Thomas. Can you do that? Do I at least have a right to understand?”
    He took a deep breath, then said, “You’re wrong about all this, Fran,” but it didn’t even sound persuasive to him.
    She stared at him with as much hate as she could muster. “Cross you heart and hope to die?”
    Thomas couldn’t look