I looked up at her from my bed as she was sitting there beside me. The screen above my head reported to the world, via a series of numbers and a moving graph, that I was still alive. Though we both knew that I wouldn’t be so for long.
It was easy, lying there useless, to compress all of those times when we had laughed, made love, argued, cried, got drunk, lied to each other or fallen asleep in each other’s arms into a single moment. And wonder what it meant. Two ordinary people within two ordinary lives.
She had no expression on her face. Or not one that I could interpret. So I asked, “Do you still love me?”
She looked at me carefully for what seemed a long time and sighed. “Oh,” she said eventually, “I think it’s much worse than that. I’m devoted to you.”