A Fiction

He told his wife he had quit smoking--one fiction among many--and when she knew that he hadn't she merely kept quiet about it, though he could tell that she sensed it, even if she could not always smell it. He told his children this, too, or at least that he was trying, when he would come back inside from the house and he smelled of it, their little faces wrinkling, noses twitching, exaggerated sneezing. But it was clinging to him, this time worse than before, worse than the other times that he had quit.

The guilt made him feel ashamed. After he smoked, he would go to his room, stay away from the children and his wife. He didn't want to be around them, didn't want to disappoint them. But it wasn't just about smoking. It was about something else, something deep inside of him that ached when he was around them, especially his wife, whom he had grown more and more distant from. The fact that she couldn't stand his smell only hastened the movement away. But in many ways it made it easier, for her and for him. At least there was a reason for the distance.

Later that night in their bed, he told his wife that things felt different.

“Did you expect them to always feel the same?” She asked.

“I don’t know what I expected,” he said.

“Different is okay,” She said. “I never expected things to stay the same.”