I stand at the kitchen island, staring absently at the green Formica counter. Green because it matched the pattern on the dinner plates. I remember how her eyes lit up in the Home Depot when the she held the plate up to the material and it was a perfect match. I take a sip of my beer, letting my eyes drift to the refrigerator.

There's pictures taped up there. Me and her with our arms wrapped around each other's waists. Standing backstage, standing on a beach, standing in front of what looks like a hotel. We're tan and smiling. We look happy. We look so much in love.

My eyes slowly drift to the window and I think I hear the rumble of an engine out on the driveway. The headlights of my own truck just stare blankly back at me across her rose garden. For a moment I watch the yellow roses, Texas roses, swaying in the light breeze under the moon. It must've been my imagination.

The beer is getting warmer but the bottle's still cool. I wonder how that's possible, then I gulp down the rest of it, slamming the bottle onto the counter. Out of habit, I pick it back up and toss it in the recycling bin. I used to just leave it there on the counter.

On the way back, the kitchen table catches my eye. The dinner I made, chicken Parmesan, her favorite, is just sitting there cold on the plates. The bottle of wine I had bought especially for tonight sits in a bucket of water. Occasionally a drop of it drips down the side of the silver, pooling on the green tablecloth.

Wax drips down the candles, the green color blends in with the tablecloth almost perfectly. I blink at their flickering flames for a moment. Then, slowly, I lean over the table and blow them out. I move to pick up one of the plates, to throw the food away, but my hands shake too much and I have to set it back down.

I take a deep breath and head into the darkened living room. My knees crack as I ease myself into a chair. Blue because it matched the couch and the carpet. Blue because she said she wanted something to remind her of my eyes when I was away and she was waitin' on me. Funny how I'm the one remembering her now, how I'm the one waitin'.

All around me is silence. It's almost oppressive. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands. I imagine just what she's doing right now. I try to think positively but it’s the darker thoughts that surface.

God, when is she gonna get home?

Time passes so slowly and then there she is. I listen as she slams the door shut on her little sports car, black to match my truck. I wait to hear her keys turn in the lock. I wince as I hear them clatter to the porch, hear her curse under her breath. Then the door opens. Her high-heeled shoes click against the linoleum in the kitchen.

She flips on the light and I'm nearly blinded. Not just by the light, but by her beauty. Most guys just see her tits, but if you look up you'll see she has the face of an angel. An angel who wears too much make-up. I don't understand why she does that. I think she's gorgeous. Maybe she doesn't think she is though. Maybe I haven't told her enough times.

Standing before me, she wobbles in navy blue heels, her skirt is slightly askew, her blouse not buttoned up quite right. Then my gazes drifts upwards and I see the unshed tears shinning in her eyes.

"How'd it go Debbie?" I ask.

"You cooked," she sobs.

I blink as she gestures behind herself at the table. Slowly I stand, wincing as my knees crack again. I hesitantly reach out and touch her shoulder. She flinches and I drop it nervously to my side.

"You cooked," she repeats.

I nod, staring as the tears fall, smearing her make-up. She wobbles again, nearly falling off balance on the plush carpet. With a low growl she kicks off the shoes, they go flying into the corner, knocking down a potted plant.

"Are you okay Debbie?" I ask again.

"No!" she screams through her tears.

"What's wrong?" I manage to ask.

"Everything Steve," she throws up her hands, "Just everything."

I don't even know what to say to that. She puts her hands on her hips, takes a deep breath and then marches away, down the hallway. I can't help but flinch as the door to the bathroom slams.

For a second I stare blankly at the dark TV screen, then I hear her sobs through the door. I swallow hard and then go to the bathroom door. I knock lightly and all I get in response is some sniffling.

"Debbie?" I call out.

"Go 'way Steve," she sobs.

I hear the water running, the sound of a wet washcloth hitting the marble counter.

"Debbie please?"

I rest my forehead against the door, just listening to her sobs over the water running.

"I'm sorry Debbie," I whisper, closing my eyes.

I nearly fall over as the door is suddenly yanked open. I catch myself on the doorframe and stare into her cold blue eyes.

"I bet you fuckin' are," she snaps.

She tries to shut the door in my face but I catch it with my foot and slam it against the wall. It hurts me to see her flinch. Like I'd ever hurt her.

"I-"

"How could you tell Vince?" she interrupts in a choked whisper.

"I didn't have a choice Debbie. He-"

"Well fuck him, 'kay?" she sniffles, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I'm sorry."

"He didn't need to know," she shakes her head.

"I know Debbie, I know."

I pick up the washcloth and move closer to her. This time she lets me touch her. I wash her face with gentle strokes, taking away the layers of powder, blush, lipstick, and eyeshadow. Then I rinse the washcloth in the sink and hang it back on the rack.

I guide her into our bedroom, clasping her hand tightly in mine. She sits down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped. It breaks my heart to see her so sad. I pick up her hairbrush and sit behind her, pulling her against my chest.

She leans her head forward a bit and I run the brush through her hair. I'm kind of awkward at it, but in the mirror I can see her eyes closed, her face unlined and peaceful.

After a moment she whispers, "It's spread."

I nearly drop the brush, but force myself to keep running through her hair despite my shaking hands.

"What does that mean?" I whisper back, like talking any louder will make it true, make it all too real.

"The doctor said we could try chemo," she laughs helplessly, "But it's too far gone."

I don't want to ask but the words just escape my mouth, "How long?"

"A month or two," she says calmly.

I drop the brush then. Her eyes open, watching me in the mirror.

"It'll be okay Steve," she smiles weakly at me.

"How's it going to be okay?" I choke, turning my head so she won't see the tears that are welling up in my eyes.

God. Cancer.

"Maybe the chemo will work," she says with a shrug.

"And what if it doesn't?" I murmur, hating the tears that have started to spill down my cheeks.

She doesn't answer me. She just turns around and hugs me, rubs my back. I should be comforting her.

"Don't leave me Debbie," I whisper in her ear, not caring that my voice breaks.

Adding silently the words I've never been able to say aloud, 'you're all I have, you're my world, my angel, I love you.' I pull her into my arms and just hold her. Let her tears soak through my shirt. Then I lay back, pulling her with me. I bury my face into her neck and cry all over again.

"It'll be okay Steve, you'll see," she soothes.

I swallow my tears down and tilt her head up, kissing her gently.

I take a deep breath and say all in a rush, "I love you angel."

"I love you too Steve," she says with a watery smile that's so brilliant it takes my breath away.

Then she snuggles against my chest, her breathing quickly evening out. I tighten my arm around her and stare blankly at the ceiling. It's painted blue. Blue to match her eyes.

End.