By the Hanukkah candles

"You shouldn't do work by the candles", he says.
"I know."
"No. I mean you really shouldn't do work."
I put down my pen. "Whatsup?"
"I'm leaving you."

Silence.

"Why?"
"It's not you - it's this country - it's too much."
"And what makes you think I wouldn't go with you?"
"You can't."

"Why not?"
"Because it's become a part of you."

He takes a sip of coffee. I can hear the liquid splash against his teeth, the slight clink of the mug on the way down.

"Do you love her?"

He laughs.  "It's not like that."

I nod. I want to get up and make myself a cup of coffee, but my body is trembling with the effort of holding in my tears.

"I'll get you a cup of coffee", he says. I almost hate him then.

Our hands touch when he hands me the mug. I flinch. He looks down at the carpet: a faded yellow.

"I hate that rug", he says. I nod. I want him to hold me, but I also want to dissappear, and everything is coming at me through a sea of tears I both crave and resent at the same time.

He busies himself around the kitchen, making latkes. "He didn't even give me the courtesy of his time", I think: I know he is only trying to give me privacy, but what does this small act of consideration matter?

The latkes are too oily, and I spend half the night traipsing between my bed and the bathroom. He sleeps soundly, curled on his side - but on one of my trips, his arms reach around my waist, and I find myself crying into his shoulder, before he pulls me down. I cry into his chest, as he awkwarly spoons me, and the down blankets brush my cheek.

"I love you", he says, but the words get stuck in my throat: I do love him, but what does it matter?

I remember the first time he told me those words: I had laughed. "Do you love me, or are you addicted to my body?" I had asked. "Is there a difference?" he asked, and kissed me before I could answer. Now, I wonder if I have run my course through his body, like a really good drug or some really bad latkes.

"Those latkes were awful", he whispers into my shoulder. We laugh. His lips work their way up to my neck.  "This is the man who is leaving you", I think, but it is too late: I hate the precision of his body, the way he knows exactly where to place each part. "I'm like a machine", I think, for a moment - before - I stop thinking at all.