Lorraine looks at Jonah, fast asleep on the couch. He’s been doing that for weeks now. Resisting the insane urge to grab the console out of his hands and whack him on the head, she walks across the room. Turns off the TV, throws a comforter over him. He rolls over without waking up.
Lorraine and Jonah. Together for a while now. When he asked her out, all shy and hesitant, he seemed all right. And now, ten months on, and he doesn’t care. Lorraine says he’s tactless. Jonah says she pushes him away.
Do all couples have this lack of communication, she wonders.
She wishes she could sleep. Like Jonah does. Undisturbed. Peaceful. He forgets the world. He forgets her. How long has it been since she actually slept? She can’t remember. When was the last time Jonah bought her sunflowers, her favorite flower? Never, she reminds herself.
I bet love is nothing but compromise in disguise.
He’d promised her always and forever. Forever is thirty seconds long, I suppose, she tells herself for the umpteenth time. That’s the longest attention span Jonah has around her. He doesn’t like hanging out. They don’t do dates. They don’t talk. They won’t text.
She’s the job he despises and doesn’t want. But she pays the bills. He needs her. Always and forever.