He tiptoed down the stairs as quietly as he could, though he couldn't answer the question of why. He couldn't even bring himself to ask it. It was just one of a thousand habits he had formed and been so happy to form. He let his habits guide him from the foot of the stairs, let them guide him into the kitchen to make breakfast for her. Let them guide him to scramble the eggs the way they both liked. Let them guide him to pour her two cups; one orange juice, one milk, just a bit more in the latter than in the former. He smiled. He loved these habits. He clung to them, unwilling and probably unable to give them up, even though she was dead.

He sat down when he was finished. He wasn't smiling anymore; that was brief, as all his smiles were. They were always unexpected, and almost gone before he could notice them. But they would always come with thoughts of her, thoughts of how things were before everything changed.

He closed his eyes to try to facilitate it, but that plan didn't make sense. Thoughts of her weren't just visions, they were moments, washes of sensation that could submerge his entire soul, bringing him in one beautiful memory her perfect legs, her wispy hair, her crystalline eyes, and from them, her sweet and magical tears.

And his words would come then, "There there, my love, everything will be OK. You'll see, I'll make everything right."

He hadn't even realized he was speaking aloud until he stopped himself. As he quieted again, he noticed the sound above him. The presence was up there, awakening. Whatever it was doing, it was doing it quickly. He didn't care much. He lowered his head and returned to floating in a lukewarm pool of apathetic lament.

Whatever else he did when he thought of her, he didn't cry. Smiles may have been infrequent, but he never cried. Even if he'd wanted to or needed to, he knew he couldn't. But it didn't matter, because he didn't want to or need to. He was alone, yes, but he was accustomed to being alone. He told himself so every day, that it wasn't so bad, he was used to being alone.

It was different, though, since meeting her, since things changed. When he had her, everything was perfect. In her, he had found everything he had ever searched for. Not someone who he needed, for he needed nothing. He had found someone who needed him.

The noises upstairs surged and ebbed in tides of clutter from the closet, and for a time, he listened to the presence there. Soon it would come downstairs.

His thoughts remained focused on his dead love. They always did.

It was raining the night they met. Driving home from work, he knew that God himself in all his benevolence had thrown some bit of metal in the road sharp enough to blow out his tire. Changing the tire with the rain pounding down on him was long, slippery, tiresome work. With the roar of the storm in his ears, he almost didn't hear it. But he did. He heard her cries.

Turning slowly, he dropped the tire iron from his hands. She was sitting on a park bench, and she was crying. She wore a rosy strapless dress that in the best of circumstances would have been beautiful upon her, but she sat soaked with rain, and the ugliness that had become of her gown made the beauty of her tearful face all the greater. He stood and stared at her, sitting and crying as if she did not notice the rain. In that moment, he forgot about it entirely as well. The droplets of water were meaningless, dull, and invisible before the shining, beaming tears in streams down her face.

She only stopped crying when he sat next to her, slipped his coat over her, and said the words. "There there, everything will be OK. You'll see, I'll make everything right." She told him everything. She sat on the park bench because, as of the previous day, penniless, she had no home. She wore her prom dress because she could take so little with her when she left, and wanted to take what was best. Somehow, it made sense at the time, she told him, and they laughed together.

He took her home with him that night, and they never parted.

The days passed. The weeks passed. The months passed. The years passed. And they were happy. Before they had met, she had had a dozen jobs, but could keep none. With him, he told her, she wouldn't have to. She had had a dozen lovers, but would keep none. Now, she had him. She had needed something but she never knew what it was. He knew, and told her, it was him. And so long as she needed him, he was happy.

He was everything she needed. He would care for her, he would show her the love she hadn't had anywhere else. He would tell her jokes and he would shower her with gifts and he would make her breakfast. She would make love to him. She would laugh at his jokes, and she would sit with him and receive gratefully anything and everything he gave her.

She would cry.

It didn't require any reason. In a life where so much had gone wrong, so many dreams unrealized, so many fears fed, she had a well of tears to release one by agonizing one. He loved them all. Each teardrop was a glistening plea for his love and for his care, and he would always answer. He would always take her in his arms and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of. He would wipe away her tears and he would tell her, "There there, my love, everything will be OK. You'll see, I'll make everything right."

Why did she have to die? Why did everything have to change?

But he didn't cry. He never did.

He was in the middle of not-crying when he heard the high heels clicking on the stairs. He decided he wouldn't interrupt his not-crying even as those heels clattered across the hard wood floors of the house he had bought for them, or even as he looked up to see her standing, smiling, in the doorway.

She said something to him, probably 'good morning', but he only watched her shoving papers into her brief case, then smoothing the wrinkles in the coat and skirt of the expensive suit she had bought for herself. Despite everything, he couldn't help but smile a little.

"I made you breakfast," he said, hopeful, his voice catching meekly in his throat.

With a voice that resonated more than it ever seemed to before, and a touch of sympathy in it, she said, "Honey, why do you do that? You know I don't have time in the mornings."

He nodded in quiet understanding and looked down at the table. Once she left, he would eat the eggs before they got too cold. Perhaps for his benefit, she picked up the juice and guzzled half of it. She never used to drink it that quickly.

"It's Friday," he reminded her. "We're going to have dinner together tonight, and then we'll make love." He slid his hand across the table toward hers to hold it, but she didn't seem to notice, she went to look for her keys.

"No, honey, remember, I told you I have to have dinner with the partners tonight," She stopped and took a breath, calming, softer, "You know, you could come if you wanted to." The offer was more politeness than anything else. Just as politely, he declined.

Once she found her keys, it wasn't more than a few moments before she kissed his cheek and was gone.

He ate his eggs, and hers. He drank his milk, and her juice, and her milk. He cleared the table and washed the dishes with a mechanical indifference. Alone in the silent house, he longed for some semblance of humanity there.

He turned on the television, and sat before it, changing the channel. The news, talk shows, even soap operas. He saw these women everywhere. Strong women. That was what she was, a strong woman. He supposed he was proud of her. She had done well. And yet...

For so long, he had held her while she cried. He had dried her tears, little droplets of pure unfathomable need. He savored them, savored the powerlessness they indicated, the necessity for his love. Eventually, though, something became clear. She was happy. He made her happy, and though he loved to do it, gradually, he began to understand that all of the tears she had accumulated in that reservoir of sorrow were only there from a lifetime of lacking love. Now, with his love, her tears were drying up.

He gave her strength that she had never had before, and she loved him all the more for it. But in his eyes, slowly, she began to die then. She cried less and less, and she was dying. She died as she made friends. She died as she found work. She died as she was promoted and bought a car for herself and a house for them both and started dressing in suits. He was losing her fast, and he felt he could do nothing about it. He was right.

With the realization striking him again, he almost doubled over, emptiness filling him. What is this? What is this I feel, and why? He was fooling himself even to ask. He knew what it was, but he wouldn't admit it. It was want. It was need. He wanted. He needed. And he hated it, but he couldn't stop it. He wanted her. He wanted her to want him. He needed her. He needed her to need him.

And she didn't. Not anymore.

It had always been this way, he knew. He was the one to throw a lavish party which no one would attend. He was the one to buy expensive gifts which no one would open. He was the one to give everything and have no one to receive it.

He didn't cry, though. He never did. His own tears would solve nothing. He wanted hers.

"Baby?" She whispered from the doorway, plucking the remote from the table and turning the television off. He jerked out of a half sleep. It was night out, somehow. He had fallen asleep on the sofa. He didn't even remember falling asleep. He looked about, disoriented. It must have been very late, she always came home very late. Looking at her, though, he found a smile coming over him, then it faded quickly. She was so beautiful.

She came to him and knelt in front of him, looking into his eyes. Her countenance was soft. There was love in it like he hadn't seen in a long time. It wasn't need, but it was love.

"How was your dinner?" He managed to ask her. She must have known he didn't really care about that very much, as she didn't bother answering. She merely put her hands on his knees and told him,

"I'm so sorry for the way I've been lately." He didn't say anything. "You know work has been crazy, but I don't mean to ignore you like I do."

It felt like something was climbing from the horrible emptiness in his stomach to his chest, catching in his throat, making speech almost impossible. What is this?

"It's OK," he managed.

"No," she said. "It isn't OK. I love you. I want you to know how thankful I am for your support." She took his hand and held it tightly. "I want to make love to you."

He couldn't breathe. He knew what this was now, and he couldn't stop it.

The tears came with a release even orgasm couldn't rival. Instantly, her arms were around him, and he wailed. She asked him what was wrong over and over again, but he had no chance of answering, save with his tears. They were soaking her shoulder.

She had done it. She had done it all. She had danced with him at his parties. She had opened his gifts and her face lit up with joy. She had taken everything he could give and loved him for it.

Before everything changed.

He couldn't stop. If she had once had a reservoir, he clearly had been keeping a river dammed, and now the dam was broken by his own need, and her answer to it. She held him tightly and he cried.

He tried to tell himself that she was gone. The woman he had met in the rain in her prom dress in the park that night was dead and gone, replaced by a better one, a stronger one. But one who did not need him. It was true, he knew it, and yet now her mere presence was torture, dead and yet alive, never to leave him in peace. Never needing him.

Nothing made him feel so alone, even as she held him, rocking. Even as finally, she spoke, and she told him,

"There there, my love, everything will be OK. You'll see, I'll make everything right."

No.

This couldn't happen. He couldn't have this. He wouldn't be this. He would have her back or he would be rid of this immortal sadist forever.

Her tender hold of him was gone as soon as his cries turned to screams, and then he saw her, falling back on the floor, terror in her eyes. She must have seen something in him he didn't even know was there, for she tried to escape.

He was too quick. He had her in his arms in an instant, lovingly holding her as he always had, always in love.

His hands wrapped around her throat. She made a sound of fright.

"Yes. Come back to me, need me." She squirmed, but he only held tighter, held her to him, his hands clenching, his eyes wincing shut, removing even the bleary vision he was left with after his tears.

When he opened his eyes, she was crying. Tears flooded down her cheeks, beautiful and sweet. He crushed her to his breast as he kept his grip.

"Yes! Yes!" he wailed as she cried those beautiful tears. They sang to him with a brilliant resonance, glowing love and need. He knew she needed him now more than ever. And he could accept now, he needed her. He needed her.

Finally, she was still in his arms. She wasn't crying anymore; he supposed she had cried enough. He sat on the floor and held her. He smiled a smile of childish gaiety that didn't vanish from his face even as she hung limp from his arms. He looked down at her eyes, still watery.

"There there, my love, everything will be OK. You'll see, I'll make everything right."