Years of Sweet Laughter: Redux

Years of Sweet Laughter: Redux

Usually, I leave old stories untouched, letting them remain as little time capsules of where I was when I wrote them. But, as with my own version of Robert’s Rules, there’s nothing stopping me from revisiting one—distilling it down to its essence and writing it again.

About seven months ago, I wrote a minimalist piece called Years of Sweet Laughter, born from an old trick to overcome writer’s block. Now, in a better flow with my craft, I decided to revisit it.

I’d love to know your thoughts—feel free to drop a note in the comments below.

Years of Sweet Laughter: Redux

“Forever and forever,” she had said, her lips curving into a soft, unguarded smile as their hands brushed against each other on the porch railing. He had asked, half-joking but needing reassurance, “How long can this stay so good?” The way she’d answered—with a certainty that defied the cautious rhythms of his mind—had stayed with him, a lighthouse in the fog of their later years.

Back then, their laughter had filled the spaces between words. Mornings began with playful arguments over the newspaper crossword, her fingers smudged with ink as she tapped the page in mock frustration. “You’re peeking at the answers,” she’d accuse, though she never minded losing. Even the silence between them carried a kind of warmth, like the hum of the coffee maker they always forgot to turn off.

But he had spent hours trying to trace where it began to unravel, always coming back to that one small crack—a moment so trivial it shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.


It had been a Wednesday evening, one of those unremarkable midweeks where life moved quietly between the peaks and valleys of their routine. She had called from the car, her voice layered with the tinny distortion of the speakerphone.

“Running late,” she said lightly. “Work ran over, and traffic’s a nightmare.”

He had glanced at the clock on the microwave, its steady pulse marking time in the quiet kitchen. Dinner sat on the counter, plates warming under a dishtowel. He didn’t question her—why would he? But later, when he reached for the bottle of wine they’d been saving, something pulled him to check her calendar, a reflex as absentminded as it was telling. There it was, circled in blue ink: Book Club, 7:30 p.m.

When she walked through the door an hour later, her cheeks pink from the cold, he didn’t ask. She leaned in to kiss his cheek, and the faint scent of perfume—a floral note she never wore to the office—lingered between them.

“How was your day?” she asked, her voice breezy. He paused, the question sticking in his throat like the bitterness of unripe fruit. “Fine,” he said finally, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It wasn’t the lie itself that stayed with him. It was the way she had slipped so easily into the fabric of their evening, like nothing had shifted. That night, as they watched TV on the couch, he found himself stealing glances at her, searching for something he couldn’t name. The shadows in the room felt heavier than usual, pooling in the corners where their laughter used to live.


The dishes lay untouched on the table between them, the candles burned down to low stubs. She traced the rim of her water glass with her finger, the gesture slow and deliberate, as though she were drawing circles around her thoughts. Across from her, he sat with his arms crossed, his shoulders tense despite the effort he made to appear at ease.

“I don’t know what else to say,” she began, her voice quiet, almost brittle. “It’s not just one thing, you know?”

He nodded but didn’t lift his eyes. The room felt smaller than usual, the air heavy with the unspoken. “You could try,” he said finally, the words landing flat. “You could at least try.”

Her laugh was soft, bitter, and it caught him off guard. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?” she said. “Every smile, every word—it’s all trying. But I don’t know if it’s enough anymore. I don’t know if we are.”

His chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “So that’s it? You’ve already decided?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice faltering. “I don’t even know what we’re fighting for anymore. Do you?”

The question hung between them, unanswered, as his gaze finally met hers. In her eyes, he saw not anger but exhaustion, a quiet surrender that mirrored the weight in his chest. His throat tightened, the familiar knot that came every time he wanted to ask her to stay but didn’t know how.

“I thought it was trust,” he said at last. “That’s what we’re missing, isn’t it? The thing we always said we’d never lose.”

She exhaled sharply, her fingers releasing the glass and falling to her lap. “Trust isn’t something you can patch together,” she said. “Once it’s gone…” She gestured vaguely, as though searching for words that refused to come.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The candles flickered weakly, their light barely touching the shadows that stretched across the walls. When she finally stood, her hand lingered on the doorframe, her fingers brushing the edge as though deciding whether to let go.

“I’m tired, that’s all,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Then she disappeared up the stairs, leaving the faint echo of her steps behind.

He stayed at the table long after she was gone, his eyes fixed on the melted wax pooling at the base of the candles. Smoke lingered faintly as the last flame surrendered to the dark.


The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in, sharp and unrelenting. He stood in the living room, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound breaking the stillness. In his hand was a photo he’d found while packing—the two of them on the porch that summer, her head tilted back in laughter, his arm draped over her shoulder.

Through the window, the garden lay in shadows, untamed and sprawling—a reflection of what they had let slip away.

Across the room, the suitcase sat by the door, half-zipped and leaning slightly to one side. It had been there for three days now, and every time he walked past it, he told himself he’d finish packing tomorrow. But tomorrow always came, and the suitcase stayed where it was, untouched.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself wonder: If he stayed—if he tried again—would it matter? Or had they already passed the point where trying was enough?

He let out a slow breath, his hand falling to his side. The suitcase stayed where it was, leaning precariously, the zipper half-open like an unanswered question.

As he walked to the kitchen, the light outside faded to gray. The house held its silence, soft and unyielding, as though waiting for something neither of them could name.

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