At some point in time, every man needs to know his wife loves him.
|Marla, please answer me. Tell me the truth. Do you love me?
And again, you choose not to answer. You could speak of our two children and our life together. We could talk, you and I, as we have many nights, of our dreams and our hopes. Look at our friends, the ones who have stayed and are here with us now, and those who have fallen from us, and those over time whom we have discarded. But Marla, my wife, my love, tell me true. I am older now as are you, and I have never pushed you or pressed you for an answer until now. But please, now, this moment, the truth, Do you love me?
Look at us, my love. Your sister stands next to me. Your brother called last night and begged my understanding. His son is in the hospital fighting for his life so he could not be here. If he were here my love, would he not look a bit askance at your cruelty not answering what you see as such an obvious conclusion it is not worth your reply. Marla, won’t you see the tears I cry. I am begging you to voice what should be known to us both.
A gust of warm air pushed against Marla’s soft gray hair. The feathery whir of wheels began as the top settled over Marla’s form and she began her journey toward flames growing higher and hotter.
But Marla, won’t you wait just a moment more. Tell me the truth, this last final time, Do you love me?
The soft whirring of metal rollers was the only reply.