Everything is okay because you make so, so much love.
Soon, soon you hope, there can be something to bridge you together again.
You can't put your finger on it whenever he is around, but when he isn't it's almost tangible- the thing in the air at your little neighborhood house, that is.
The thing you grasp at when you vacuum the floors and put up the curtains in his favorite colors.
Sometimes in the rare moments when he is home, he's usually reading a cheap novel in absolute silence, or just smoking on the couch.
You don't know what to say to him because your life is not exciting, and whatever his life is he doesn't tell you.
He used to ask you questions about your life anyway, but usually all the same ones. Who you went out with. How so and so is.
He clearly is shut off. One day you muster the words to tell him something isn't right. Maybe you should go to the doctor and get a checkup, see if something is wrong with either of you. We've been trying so hard for so long. He laughs at this and tells you, in a rare moment where he talks about his family, that this sort of thing is not predictable, it's a bitch. He confides that he was a surprise in his family.
You say it's not just that. You say it's something about him, and the two of you. Something not right.
He asks you "Why? We have sex all the time, right?" and it's not a question.
Maybe it's in the odd taste of the morning-after tea he seems to be in the habit of making, in the flecks of white on the surface of that hastily-stirred beverage when he hands it to you. Or in the way he never says I love you anymore, and seems to be busy with work. Maybe it's just you trying too hard and thinking too much, because wasn't he always like this? So you try again, and again.
And everything is okay.