Summer's gone.

I opened the door to see him sitting on the couch, skeptical, his eyes staring at the floor, then nowhere. I wouldn't even think of coming close to him, ask him "what's the matter honey" with a caring voice tone. I knew his answer beforehand, whatsoever.

I didn't want to make him answer me. My kindly forcing him to speak would light the spark for the flames to begin. It did occur to me that there was something ominous in his silent and rigid presence. And I had to spit a word. Quick.

"Corrie..." I blowed.

He didn't move. He didn't say anything. Not a word, until he saw I was stunned up with tears. I had to hold them back. He didn't shout. He never would.

"I can't." He raised his head, glanced at me. His eyes wet, yet without any trace of crying. We stood staring for a minute. It was as if the blood pumping through his veins was boiling his flesh, yet so confident was he that refused to let the mind stampede it into panic. He was not painted.

Aching with pity, I breathed.

"Honey, I..."

"I need you" he whispered, determined. He lied on the couch, turned over. And it was as if he had given me the key to the very extensive flower garden of heavens. I lied next to him. We nearly died.