I bought him flowers again. Brought them to his work. He told me he was too busy to see me, in a meeting or something like that, and wouldn’t come out to get them. So I left the at the counter with a nice enough receptionist. But when I left, I sensed that he was already out of that “meeting”. When he came home, I had to ask him if he liked the flowers. He said yes and didn’t even thank me. He didn’t bring them home, either. When I asked where they were he said on his desk. I doubt it.

Something has been off these past few weeks. He’s distant, unlike himself. We don’t cuddle like we used to and he has a new hobby, pickle ball, that he’s always practicing. He’s never invited me to come see him play, but he’s always leaving to go play.

My hands grip the steering wheel, turning bone white, as I wonder if he still loves me like he used to. When he used to bring me flowers, flowers which I still have in keepsake boxes, dried and kept as mementos. I park near his car and see him walking, bag slung over his shoulder, to a younger man leaning against a tree. A pickleball buddy? Could be … but then why is he holding flowers and smiling so largely?

I pulled the keys from the ignition and sighed, looking at the bag in the passenger seat. If he wasn’t going to love me, he wasn’t going to love anyone.