She was doing it again, talking about the future.
And he played along, unsaid promises he couldn’t keep.
“I still have a good three years till I have to worry about that,” she teased, and her laugh filled the car.
“Funny. I can’t wait till you get old.”
Shit. He regretted it the moment the words left his lips. They suggested he would be there, and he knew that wasn’t likely. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure why she was still with him at all. He hadn’t expected it to last this long—it never did—and really, she deserved better. He guessed she just didn’t see that. And honestly, he was just too selfish to tell her.
She smiled, and he knew she caught it, too—the implied possibility. He couldn’t think of a way to take it back, so he just changed the subject.
She was mad at him again.
He wasn’t sure he deserved it—he didn’t really think he had done anything wrong. He hadn’t cheated or stood her up or forgotten her birthday. Really, all he had done was make other plans—what’s so wrong with that?
She was mad nonetheless.
He knew it boiled down to expectations. They clearly had different ones. He saw it. He didn’t say it, but he saw it. He knew that was probably a little selfish—well, maybe a lot selfish—but what could he say? He still wanted to be with her—maybe not in the way she wanted, but still, in some way. And really, she always got over it. She eventually got over his little transgressions (and again, were they really even transgressions?), so she must not care that much.
He knew that was a lie.
But really, what could he say?
He said nothing.
He’d stick around as long as she put up with him. And then? Then, he’d go back to life without her.