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food for thought

There were times she wished he knew her food habits.    Other times she was grateful to not have to answer the questions. 
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"I wish we had danced more."
The look of confusion on his face relayed the words that his mouth couldn't, and she laughed.  "I'm sorry," she continued.  "It's random, I know."
"Dance?" he repeated.  "Why dancing of all things?"
She shrugged.  "I don't know.  You always hear stories about the magic of the dance floor.  And you and I, every time we danced I'm pretty sure one of us didn't remember it the next day."  She laughed.  "I don't know; maybe the magic would have lasted a little longer if we had danced more."


"Sacrifice."  She repeated the words to keep herself from falling into a hysterical fit of laughter that would have been described as nothing less than manic.  "Sacrifice," she said again, rolling the word in her mind.
She willed herself to control her thoughts, her emotions, but she could feel them quickly slipping out of her grasp.  "Tell me," she began again, "Please tell me what you know about sacrifice.  Tell me about the last time you knew the slightest struggle.  Between you and your trust fund wife.  Please, enlighten me as to what you know about it.  The last time you actually had to try for something- anything.  The last time you tried so hard for something you would have bled if it meant there was even the slightest chance to make it a reality."
It wasn't the response he had expected, and he was left without words.
"I have bled for so much," she finally said, and as the words left her lips she could feel the tears begin…


"I would have married you."
She wouldn't have heard him if she hadn't heard the words before.  His voice seemed to grow more quiet each time he spoke and now his voice had fallen to below a whisper.
It wasn't the first time she had heard the words leave his mouth.  Over a decade ago sitting in his parent's basement.  A few years after that when he had moved out and roomed with a friend.  Both times were the same.  Less than ideal.  A plea.  An excuse.  A grasp at straws.  A moment where, looking back, she is sure he must have thought he was trying to rectify things.  A moment where each time things had ended exactly the same.
She could have replied with words that acted as swords.  Words that would have pierced through him and she could imagine the pained look on his face as they would have left her mouth.  But no, not tonight.  She had grown from that.  She was better.  Wiser.  
But alas, the drinking had begun to catch up with her thoughts, and she replied with…