She waited as he wasted away.
She watched and pined. He watched as well; sometimes TV, sometimes her.
She fed him hand-to-mouth. Eventually he refused to eat. As he grew thinner, the drip in his arm pulsed like a marathon runner, sucking exhausted breaths as it neared the finish line.
He smiled painfully. She did, too.
She cried when he slept–never when he was awake. Her tears fell gently on the back of his hand, where they ran off the edge in random segues before fading away with nary a whisper.
She knew when the day arrived. There was no announcement, no symbolic continuous beep on the machine, like on TV. She just knew. So did he.
They held hands.
She waited as he went away.
If you would like to read more of my flash fiction, click here.