How You Look to Me

   She told me today that she feels guilty. Working different hours than your partner is a strain, or so I'm told. I wouldn't know, and in this instance, I don't seem to care. This story is getting off track.
    The circumstances go like this. She is a ball of anxiety and fret. Now, keep in mind, none of this is a direct result of anything I have done. Well, that isn't exactly true.
   "Can I ask you a question?", she slurs, slightly as the rain hits the windshield of her small urban SUV. The funny thing is that no matter how many times this scenario happens to you, the situation always comes out of left field.
   "Of course you can, Hon", I keep my eye-rolling buried deep in my conscious mind.
   "The other day, when I told you I loved you, why didn't you tell me, that you loved me?", no matter how you answer this question, you are fucked. I don't really pause here. I know the answer. The worst part is, so does she.
   "Because I don't love you."