Rough with calluses, his hands are gentle while painting my nails. He is my favorite manicurist to date. My fingers squeeze his and he lifts his face with a ready smile.

"Is that Vibrantly Violet?" I ask.

His features twist, aghast. "As if I would forget your favorite color?"

Suddenly, a smile erupts. "With you being such a scoundrel? I have no doubt! What kind of man sleeps on a couch each night? Certainly not ones who remember nail polishes."

His lips quiver, threatening my heart.

"Certainly not," he parrots, his smile is a watercolor, dimmer than usual. "Once we get you a proper manicure again, I'll take you on another date night. To prove my lack of...scoundrel-ness, after..."

He stalls out, and my hand tightens. 

"After," I promise. Knowing it's a lie.

When his fingers reach to cup my cheek, I melt into him. Just as I have the past fifteen years. His hand moulds to my face, his wedding ring cold against my skin. My throat bobs. Constricting.

Beep. Beep. Beeeep.

"No," I whisper the plea.

Clad in blues and greys, nurses rush in while machines squeal. His face, which I love so dearly, morphs with loss. Tears track over his cheeks as he stumbles to the couch, out of the way. Purple stains the sheets. I reach for him past the darkness bleeding into my eyes. My tongue won't work. My heart thrashes off beat. 

My body fails.

'I love you' echoes unsaid in my head.