11-03-12| 3:37 am

"Remember the last thing you said to me before we went to sleep?" He asks, emotion straining behind his voice.

"No," I snap.

"The last thing you said." He is driving, not looking at me, hands firmly wrapped around the steering wheel.

"No! I forgot already." I press my lips together and look out the window. A roadside produce stand, an empty corn field. A crisp fall day.

"You said to me, 'Do you love me?'"

I remember it now; remember peering over at him in the dim light, both of us under the covers. His eyes already closing in sleep. He is so calm, so childlike when he sleeps.

"I said yes," he reminds me, in a clear, calm voice.

The tears roll down my face.