As I look in the mirror I think, just one more minute. In one minute I will open the door and he will be standing there waiting for a response. I turn on the taps, to buy myself 30 more seconds. It’s futile, he taps on the door. With a sigh, I turn off the water, touch my fingers to my lips and breathe deeply. Time to give him the bad news, the news he has heard before, but its repetition doesn’t make the cut any less deep.
I open the door, shake my head no, and try to push past him.
“Wait.” He says, making a grab for my wrist.
I shake him off and turn into our bedroom, where the over head light is to harsh against the darkness before the dawn.
“What?” I whisper more then speak. I know he will want to comfort me, and I want him to. But what I want more is to not cry, I am so sick of crying. I turn from him to look into the closet, trying to perform the next task, the next thing on my list.
He steps up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me flush against him. I know he is sad, but his strength is too much, to wonderfully awful and my resolve breaks. I turn into his arms, and he whispers “we won’t stop trying” I shake my head into his chest, and even as I make the back and forth motion of no, I know we will try again, because there is nothing more addictive then trying to fulfill your dream and knowing you are living your worst nightmare.