In all fairness, he asked before too.
"What's the matter?" or "What's wrong?"
Her answer always seemed vague and obtuse and for this, he'd get irritated. It seemed as if she wasn't sharing, or that she didn't know. And really, that was it - she didn't know. No one word could embody the helplessness and judment she experienced. Not only did it seep from her pores, the trepidation would drip from her fingertips or tear from the corners of her eyes with the slightest of cause.
He'd think that he'd neglected something, forgotten or entangled some problem - but it wasn't him. She loved him so much that it hurt. And there were days that came and spoke to her: the feeling of freedom in one person, of finally finding what had for so long been sought - her Love. Mentally though, the words to explain to him... they were caught. They were jumbled. And for all the worry; he knew this. He wanted with his every effort to make it all better for her.
But he couldn't.
Sitting in her garden she could tell that he tried. She watched him come to her in sweetness and just smile. He'd given up asking what was wrong since the last time her explanation came out sideways. Shame. For she certainly loved to hear the care in his voice when he'd speak to her. Shame that experience conditions the heart.
She pulled the weeds that choked out the brightest greenery in her garden and thought that one day soon, she would be able to hand him an invitation with all the right words. It would be perfect with gold lettering and flowing design. It would have space and comfortability - it would be welcoming, promising and undoubtedly ideal.
She would invite him to be her husband, to take her heart and protect it well.
She would promise the same for him.
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