The house is quiet. I come home to silence. I hear the lambs in the neighbouring fields. I'm used to the white noise of the TV; he used it like a security blanket. A layer of separation between us that negated the need to speak to one another. To interact. It drowned out even your thoughts. It was easy.
I missed the conversation of our early days. Our dreams, our hopes, our musings and wonderings. My initial attraction was in part because he asked good questions. I can't recall them now, but I distinctly remember that was my first impression the night we met. The art of conversation. The kind of questions that made me think; not on auto-pilot, not small talk, and not mere flirting. His interest in me seemed endless and genuine. I was interesting and vibrant as the object of his laser focus.
I never imagined it would fade away. Perhaps its intensity should have been my warning. Of course it would burn off and evaporate to be replaced with new obsessions regularly. I wanted to be as captivating as golf or Sky Sports.
We rarely watched the same TV programmes. Sat side by side, each engrossed in our respective media of choice. His programme, my phone. My show, his Facebook. Maybe some bits during commercial break, but with DVR, commercials are obsolete. The TV was on when company was over for dinner, turned off only on special occasions like an anniversary. These dinners were not the lingering affairs like in the spring of our relationship. Instead, long silences punctuated by small talk against the flickering candlelight.
He is gone now and I talk to myself. I talk to my dog. Spotify. My DVR is full with unwatched shows. Sometimes I feel alone, but never as lonely as when we were actually together.
