Our bedroom was always open, no locks, no barriers. But it may as well have had a wall running down the middle of the bed. He slept on the right, I on the left. His bedside lamp cast a cold white glow. Mine was warm, soft, and shielded with a cloth cover.
On stormy nights, when the rain rattled against the tin roof of our balcony, I curled up facing the wall, and so did he — in the opposite direction.
I washed his shirts with care. I aligned his toothbrush just so. I celebrated his birthdays and watched him light incense on the anniversary of my mother’s death. And when relatives asked why we hadn’t had children yet, he would offer the same practiced line:
“Work has been demanding. We’ll see after the next project.”
His answer always bought us time. But deep inside, I was fading. The flame inside me, once hopeful, had long gone dim.
The First Night — And Every Night After
I remember our wedding night clearly.
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