It was love. It had to be. What else could excuse such bizarre behavior? He fumbled with his hair, vaguely scratched his scalp, and told himself the same thing over and over: it had to be love.
He turned his key in the lock and braced for the dark emptiness that waited on the other side of the door. His television would do its best to entertain him, as would his computer and an endless supply of music and booze. They would all fail.
How long has it been now? It doesn’t matter. So many people have died, and tons of babies born, since the last time he had tasted all the exotic spices of her love.
He closed his eyes before turning out the light. He couldn’t bear to watch the darkness fall. It would wait – silently, cautiously – for the deepest pit of the night, for him to open his eyes, expand his pupils, and stare into the hungering darkness to ask: If it wasn’t love, what was it?