When we don't say goodbye

“Are you happy?”
He watches the television, changes the channel, turns his head to look at her, changes the channel again.
“It’s a hard time to know that,” he says.
“Maybe. But I’m not. I don’t think I can keep doing this.”
He runs through more channels.
“It’s not good to be unhappy,” he says, looking at the television, .
“So what are we going to do?” She’s on the edge of the green chair, leaning forward, her hands together, the ends of her fingers growing pinker.
He changes channels again, once, twice, three times. He looks towards her, not sitting up.
“I don’t know. Wait. See if things get better. I’m not sure.”
She can hardly hear him over the laughtrack.
“I can’t wait much more.” She keeps looking at him. She stares so hard her eyes water; she remembers staring at her old bedroom closet door without blinking to keep the creature inside.
He looks at the television. His skin changes, green, blue, pink, as images on the screen light the room. His age changes with the colours. He changes channels again, stops on the real estate channel, photos of expensive houses, descriptions of modern kitchens and multiple bedrooms.
They both wait.
“I don’t know,” he says.
He holds his breath, afraid of what a sound would say. She breathes, smells damp, stale air, windows too small and too high. In the winter the room never gets warm.
He puts his hands behind his head, elbows raised, so his face is blocked by his arm. He stares harder at the television, but can’t make himself change the channel, so he watches houses for sale roll by, one every 30 seconds or so.
“If you don’t start caring more, I’m going to have to start caring less.” She speaks quietly, threat and pleading all in one sentence. She pulls the sweater a little tighter around her shoulders, brushes her red hair back. Her fingernails are chewed short.
He lowers his elbow to look at her and knows she has already started caring less.
“I’ll try harder,” he says, and changes the channel again. He keeps changing channels, looks at her again, then raises his elbows and watches the colours on the screen.
She waits, then stands and leaves. He hears her feet down the hall, up the stairs, into the bedroom. He changes channels, turns up the TV.
“I’m going to the gym.” she tells him 20 minutes later. She has on black leggings, sweat shirt, her hair tied back with a scrap of black ribbon.
“Work hard,” he says.
He hears the car leave and walks down to their room. He sees the sweater, pants, underwear she was wearing, thrown in a pile in the corner of the room near the door. He goes and lies on the floor, his head on the clothes, the sweater scratching his cheek. He takes a deep breath, inhales her smell from the clothes. He knows it’s the last time her clothes will smell that way.