Everything looks so stale today.

She sits alone in a brightly painted swing on her front porch, while the sun blazes brilliantly and the grass is green and soft and healthy, and the sky is blue and cloudless. Gorgeous day again, and it amazes her how everything can somehow look past its expiration date. The birdsongs are monotonous, redundant, and even the roses seem to have lost their scent -- and she had loved them so.

She tries to make it all come alive for her again, to recapture the excitement and the hopes she'd had when she moved in, the newness of it all. She rises from the swing, steps away from it, and shuts her eyes. She imagines it never existed. She whistles a tune, pretends she is returning from work. She stands still for a moment, fully convincing herself, and then she opens her eyes. And magically, the red paint is brighter than it used to be, and newer. She wanders over to the swing, and runs her fingers gingerly over the shiny metallic chain. She sits down, cautious of unsteady movements, as if she hasn't been doing it every day for the past three months. Everything is almost the same as it was when he surprised her with this newest addition to their outdoor furniture, when they sat together on the porch and felt like a family. She has fooled herself for now; she smiles and commends herself on a job well done.

She has only a few minutes alone with her new swing, when the front door opens. He flops down next to her, with familiarity and no cautious air. The swing has existed there for months; the spell is broken. The color fades before her eyes.

And for one fleeting moment, she hates him.

But then he wraps his arm around her shoulders and grins in his carefree way, and with this gesture, she is brought back to sweet neutrality.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he comments, and his voice is smooth and calming. And she wishes already that he would shut up (goodbye neutrality). Instead she says yes -- yes, a beautiful day indeed. She cannot deny it.

"What's wrong, hon?" How like him to always notice when something is wrong.

If today had been another day in the past, she would have smiled and loved him. If today had been another day. Today she hates his pet names. Today she hates his understanding, because she knows that before the sun goes down, she will have given everything away. Without ever saying a word, because she will never know how to tell him.

She can't just say, it's the lawn and the sky and the swing and the goddamn picket fences; she can barely grasp the concept herself.

He's saying her name.

"What?" she snaps, and then softens, seeing the concern in his expression. "I - I'm sorry," she sputters. "What did you say?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," she says, and he turns away with obvious uneasiness. She hadn't meant for the word to come out so coldly. After all, it isn't his fault that she's not in love with him anymore.

She jumps a little when he speaks her name again, and adds, "I'm sorry," his voice soft and laden with defeat.

"For what?" although she knows the answer.

"I'm sorry," is all he can muster. I'm sorry for the lawn and the sky and the swing and the goddamn picket fences and I'm sorry that everything fades is everything he doesn't say and everything they both understand.

He kisses her tenderly, sadly on the forehead, and she remembers a time when paint was bright red and a swing was unsteady under her and roses were sweet-smelling, and everything was new and exciting and beautiful. It's still beautiful, and there's more beauty yet to be seen.

She will pack her bags tonight and leave tomorrow, and he knows it.

But for now, he and she sit, arms around each other, sharing this bittersweet moment of realization on their front porch in a brightly painted swing in a neighborhood with white picket fences and fresh, healthy green lawns, with blue sky and brilliant sun. Picturesque.