It's not fair, but she can't help it. She's angry at him for his whole life in between when they met and now. Why did he have to get married, have a child? So selfish that she wants him all to herself, is that it? So insecure that she can't stand to think of him with anyone else? He laughs at her when she tells him, not mean, surprised.
"I will never leave you," he says, sprawled across their bed. "Hell, I'm scared you'll run away from me. I still have nightmares of chasing you. What am I going to do about you? You're all I wrote about while I was gone."
"I'm such a fascinating subject?"
"Every woman I write about is you."
"And every man you write about is you?"
"If I tear the wrapping off, maybe they're also you. I'm obsessed."
"Good." She tries to get up but he grabs her round the waist, pulls her flush to him, nuzzles her shoulder with his chin, scratching her with his stubble.
"What about you?" His lips are at her ear, his voice soft as he can make it. "Tell me you love me."
"I love you."
"Tell me something I can keep, believe."
It's easier for him to be haunted, he's a writer. He puts it down in words and it's done, over. She sings, and each time she sings, she feels like she's singing to him, for him, about him, any song, every song. Sings a happy song, she's falling in love with him for the first time, sings a sad song, she's losing him forever. "You want to hear my secret? Every song is about you."
His body, hers, the whole world, swells with his inhale. Exhaling, his arms press her closer, erase all space between.