“Not cold. Realistic.”
He didn’t answer.
They spent the rest of the evening in strained silence.
Kiana read a book.
Darius watched some reality show on TV, laughing a little too loudly at nothing.
Before bed, he went into the bathroom, splashed around for a while, then came out, lay down, and buried his face in his phone.
Kiana closed her book and lay down next to him.
The darkness was thick.
The wind rustled outside the window.
She heard Darius fidgeting under the blanket, typing something on his phone.
He was probably texting his mother, planning.
Kiana turned onto her side, facing the wall.
Inside, she was surprisingly calm, almost indifferent.
Five years of marriage, it turned out, could be wiped out by one conversation in the kitchen, one decision to steal a wife’s money, and a conspiracy with his mother.
She remembered how they met.
A typical story: mutual friends, a party, talking until morning.
Darius seemed interesting then, vibrant.
He joked, told stories, and knew how to listen.
Then came the flowers, the walks, the first kiss in the rain on a downtown corner.
Romance.
The wedding was modest.
Kiana insisted on it.
She didn’t want the grandeur, the guests, the debt from the banquet.
Darius easily agreed, saying the main thing was being together, not putting on a show.
Good words.
Too bad they were empty.
