Two weeks pass quickly, and with me popping out a table each week, I've proudly finished two already. So far, I feel like I'm doing pretty well. The one-month deadline was pretty unrealistic, so I convinced Adam, my client, to consider a month and a half. That way I've got a little leeway in case something comes up and I've got to put production on hold.

He called last night to ask about coming over and taking a look at the pieces I've already completed. It's exciting really. I love watching their faces light up when they see their designs come to life. Their response is the reward of a job done right.

Seth and I haven't seen much of each other in the last few days. I swear, since walking in on me in the bathtub, it seems like he's been trying extra hard to avoid me. It's frustrating, and yet, if he's going to avoid me, I guess this is the perfect time. It's not like I've had a chance to really do anything but hole myself up in my workshop. I'm way over my head with measuring, planking, cutting, clamping, gluing, sanding, and staining each table to perfection. It's exhausting... and so gratifying.

I hear the doorbell ring, and quickly dust my hands on my apron before making the trek through the backyard and into the house. I swing the door open and greet Adam with an inviting smile. I'm positive I'm as grimy as I feel, but there's no time for vanity when it comes to woodworking. I lead him out back and welcome him inside my rather spacious shed.

I watch his eyes skim over the glossy tables, the scent of freshly sliced wood planks tainting the air. I see him take in a deep breath before blowing it out through pursed lips. Suddenly, I'm wondering if he's pleased at all. His face sure doesn't show it. He starts shaking his head slowly side-to-side and I'm all prepared to jump in and defend my work when he shifts his feet and turns towards me.

"Mercy," he says, his voice carrying an airy, surprised quality. "You've outdone yourself."

I audibly release my anxiety through my lips with an exhale, and a smile skitters over my face.

"This is stunning work." He turns back towards the table, running his hand over its smooth surface and not bothering to hide his pleasure. "You know, when I contacted Steve

about this project, he assured me I'd get exactly what I wanted. But," he tilts his head in my direction with a teasing smile lifting the corner of his lips, "I got so much more. These are beautiful."

"I'm glad to hear it," I tell him, my heart pumping to the beat of pure glee.

"I feel confident you won't let me down," he says, reaching out his hand towards me. I offer him a friendly shake and watch as he makes his way toward the door. "I look forward to seeing them all completed."

He rounds the side of the house and I hear his truck rumble to life. I smile to myself after closing the door to my workshop. It's moments like this that remind me exactly why I love doing what I do. I start the walk back to the house, and that's when I realize Seth is standing at the window. He offers a sharp nod when he catches my eye and then turns away. He's nowhere in sight when I enter through the backdoor, and I briefly wonder if seeing me spooked him out of the house.

But then I hear the bathroom door open, and a moment later he stalks out. His shoes are missing and I notice he's changed into a pair of low-slung sweat pants. His t-shirt is hugging his biceps in a way that makes me jealous, and his hair has lost its professional business-like shine.

I quirk a brow at his appearance and then glance up towards the clock that hangs in the dining room. It's barely time for lunch, and yet, Seth's already back from work. A sudden spike of fear slithers through my circulatory system, and I take a step in Seth's direction. The movement halts him in his pursuit of the kitchen and he eyes me suspiciously.

"You okay?" he asks, and if it were any other circumstance, his worry would probably melt my heart. But I realize he's asking more out of worried confusion than worried concern.

"What are you doing home already?" I inquire, already dreading his response.

"What?" he says, clearing offended by my words. "Would you prefer I leave?"

"That's not what I was asking," I explain, hating how sensitive he seems. This isn't like him. He doesn't usually act so defensive and irritable. "It's just that, you're obviously not returning to work dressed like that." I point towards his sweat pants and watch as his eyes trail down his own body. "Did they give you the afternoon off?"

He runs a hand through his hair, before sighing. "I asked for it off."

"Oh." My chest nearly convulses at the possibility of him taking off work to be with me. Maybe he's had some epic revelation and is ready to make things right. "Why?" I venture to ask.

"Because I'm tired."

Okay, so not the answer I was hoping for, but still better than finding out he'd lost his job.

"Why don't you just relax," I offer, "and I'll make us some lunch."

He doesn't move for a moment and I tilt my head up to see him examining me. His face reads curious, but his body is stiff and cautious. Why do I get the feeling that he doesn't trust me? All this time, I thought I was the one that needed to question whether I trusted him or not, but right now, he seems to be battling the same issue.

Risking rejection, I reach my hand up and run it over his taut shoulders. I want to shuffle closer to him. I want to feel the heat of his body mixing with the chill of mine. I want to lift myself onto my toes and lean in until his breath touches my lips. But I don't.

With a simple squeeze, I leave him standing alone in the dining room, his eyes wide with surprise. He seems to act that way anytime I touch him. It's as if the gesture is so foreign that it actually shocks him into paralysis for a moment. With a mischievous grin to myself, I realize how this could benefit me. Maybe a few simple, innocent caresses could spark the flame that saves our marriage.

But, the moment the thought flitters into my mind, I snuff it out. That's the thoughts of a dreamer, someone seeking a real-life fairytale. Real life doesn't work like that. Touch is only magical when feelings are involved. Once the feelings die, the magic fades. You can't ignite love by touching someone who feels nothing. I can't make Seth love me with hugs and kisses. If what he once felt for me is dead, then my touch would probably be about as enchanting as a dog rubbing his itchy butt over the carpet. Sure, the carpet would get the job done, but it's not as if the dog dreams about dragging his behind over it for the rest of his life. It would just be an object. There'd be no emotional ties between the dog and the carpet. Same as Seth having no emotional ties to me. Which is what I want most. While the physical side is great, it's not what my heart craves. What my heart wants is to beat in unison with his. I want to be his oxygen. I want us to be a harmony. I want the vibration of our love to sing a song of beautiful euphony. Without each other, our lives would be bland.

Without each other, our lives are bland.

The song of two lives doesn't sound quite as sweet when only one of us can hear it. Right now Seth is deaf towards our love. He's deaf to the beauty of what we could have. And how in the world am I supposed to bring his hearing back?

Like always, we sink into the couch as we eat our macaroni and cheese in silence. The tv rambles on, but I'm barely focusing on it. Instead, I'm working on ways to open up Seth's ears again. I've been racking my brain for ways of showing him my love without being too obvious with my intentions. So far, cooking, cleaning, and subtle touches seem to have gone unnoticed.

I've got to bump the challenge up a notch. It's time to take things to the next level. I've planned out a few ideas, some of which will have to wait until I've completed this massive wood project, but some can be done now. Not waiting for our show to finish, I leave Seth to enjoy his lunch alone and grab my phone on the way to my bedroom.

"Hey, Mom," I say after the call goes to voicemail. "This is Mercy. Just seeing if you wanna come over tomorrow. I'm taking the day off and thought you'd like to help me paint my kitchen. Call me when you get a chance."

I hang up, anxious to have a little chat with my mom. She's unaware of what's been going on between Seth and me, and I plan to keep it that way for a bit, but it is nice to get some things off my chest. There are ways of getting advice from her without bringing up the divorce paper incident... and that's exactly what I plan to do.

I leave my bedroom a few minutes later to find Seth at the kitchen sink. I'm not exactly sure what he's doing until I round the corner and find his hands submerged in soapy water as he works to scrub a particularly difficult dish.

I nearly stop breathing. It's been months, months! since Seth last washed the dishes. Since things started going downhill, he's avoided any sort of housework. I'm not sure exactly why that would be unless he's trying to prove to me just how little he cares about me. I remember how appreciative I was when he'd help out around the house, so when he stopped, his reasons seemed pretty clear to me.

"Can I help?" I ask softly from behind him.

He jumps at the sound of my voice and turns to look over his shoulder at me. I expect to see a playful smile on his face, but he looks anything but thrilled. You would think I'd tied him to the sink and forced him to wash the dishes by the look on his face.

"Sure," he mutters, and for a moment I'm shocked that he's agreed.

So, apparently, it's not my presence that put that scowl on his face. If not me, then what's up with his mood? Why does he look like he's just swallowed a cactus?

We work in silence, him washing and me drying. Our fingers kiss a couple of times during the process. He hands me a plate and my hand skims across his as I take it from him. The contact has my body on fire. It feels as though I've just filled a pepper with lighter fluid and then dropped it into my bloodstream, followed by a lit match. My veins are nearly screaming for relief. My body is going to explode into a raging bonfire. I'm so excruciatingly uncomfortable, and yet, I wouldn't trade this sensation for the world.

The last dish is washed and dried, but neither of us moves. I carefully hand him a dish towel and he dries his hands with slow precision. I'm aching to know where his thoughts are leading him, but before I can ask, he turns to face me. We're so close that my chest nearly brushes his, but neither of us steps away.

He looks at me for several intense moments and I get that sickening feeling that this moment is about to be destroyed. I can see the words rushing towards his lips like a tidal wave, and before I can stop myself, I'm halting his words with my mouth.

My lips are on his before either of us realizes what's happening. I nearly stumble at my eager attempts to be closer to him, and the raging furnace that was so uncomfortable just a moment ago is now a raging inferno of desire. It's been so long.

My hand slides up to meet the defined edges of his jaw, and something in my chest stutters to life when I feel his jaw working beneath my hand as his lips move with my own. And then just as quickly, he's tearing himself from my grasp and striding out the front door. I hear his truck start, and the unmistakable sound of rubber tearing over gravel. Within seconds, all traces of him are gone.

I almost feel like I imagined the entire thing. Like I'm experiencing this moment with nothing but his ghost to keep me company. An empty weight settles in my stomach, and I can't keep the pain from choking past my lips. It's like he's doused me with ice water. The lava raging through my veins just moments ago is now solid as concrete. I feel heavy—defeated. All the passion from that simple kiss has now dwindled into chard logs and his rejection was like a gust of wind, blowing the ashes into the breeze.

I'm empty.