The silence was the thing Angelina could not ignore.
Since her husband died, the house went quiet.
He sneezed a lot. Explosively. Then he blew his nose. Loudly. At least twice for every sneeze. She spent more on Kleenex than she did on food.
Still, her memory of the sneezing was oddly fond.
It was the sadness, so intense, so deep, that she did not miss. It permeated everything, contaminated their marriage, and most likely, killed him.
He was never happy. Never. He hated his life with a singular focus and manic intensity.
Thought of himself as a writer, and that opinion tortured his every waking moment. Because he did nothing about it. Except to dream. As a result he spent his life working menial jobs and slowly murdering his soul.
He had all kinds of unrealistic plans for creating the life and success that he coveted. But ambition always fell short.
He died of a massive heart attack, as you might expect. The sadness built up inside him until there was room for nothing else. Until his heart exploded.
Angelina took in the silence for the thousandth time since he died. She sighed loudly. Sadly.
Settled on the couch under a blanket, with her two precious cats in her lap. Dialed up Law & Order on tv, and took up her crocheting.
He died a stranger to the man she married over forty years ago.
Still, she missed him.
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