….and so it goes…

“It’s impossible to talk to you about anything! Anytime I bring up something you’ve done wrong you never apologize!”

She lay on her side. Stiff. Emotions rushing through her, things she wanted to say. Instead she repeats so he knows he’s been heard. “When you want an apology from me I clam up and won’t give you one.”

“Examples! I want examples! Anyone can repeat words, but I want to know you really understand me.”

“Okay,” deep breath, this is going to be more difficult than that, “when I asked you to stop interrupting me, three times,  and then I lost my temper when you interrupted me again, and stormed upstairs you said I should have given you an apology and I couldn’t. Even when we were outside in public and you were yelling at me about how unfair I had been that I didn’t apologize, I didn’t.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“You married someone who can’t apologize.”

“Oh cut the drama.”

“It’s not drama , its truth. I’m stubborn.”

“Oh this is fucking great,” he said, with exaggerated moves to get out of the bed. “I ask for a simple example and I get fucking drama ”

He’s going to turn the lights on, she thinks….and then she’ll be forced to look at this reality. … no…..The light is not coming on. He’s just going in the guest room. He said he would earlier today. In fact she was surprised at all that he was even there to begin with.

SLAM. 

The number of doors he’s slammed in the past week could seriously bring our house down. She thinks for a moment about hanging glass Christmas ornaments on each door. The children think it’s okay to slam doors too now. We’d have a “pay back the slammed door fund”. Sure, she might break some too but….”oh, he’s coming back. He never stays….”

“This is MY fucking bed. Shouldn’t get kicked out of my own, fucking, bed.” Flop, yank, more flopping, tugging. Clearly, she isn’t supposed to be comfortable here. The though my quickly runs through her head, “well it isn’t really your fucking bed….it’s been a while…..” But keeps it to herself. Even the raging feminist that insists half of everything is hers even though he brings home the paycheck is silenced. Instead she slowly rises. She gathers her phone, glasses, cable cord, “enjoy your bed” she says. And heads toward the guest room.

That is all tonight, she hopes. 

That is all tonight, I hope.

Tomorrow will come. It will all continue. 

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