When We Fight by Mike Miller
It is the night we die. Or perhaps just the last time of our dying, the final moments of our inevitable demise. The decay had begun so long ago it was difficult to remember how. But like any well-deserving virus, the cancer was only detected after it was too late. This night is our last.
* * *
And it begins so well. Every Friday evening is the best, where there is that sublime moment of the stoppage of work. The split second where work ends and freedom starts, a moment so quick it cannot be measured. A blink, from one existence where my life is hammered into wrought-iron subservience. And then the instant switch, to ecstatic freedom.
The darkness of work to the light of the weekend exhilarates me into giddy delirium. I skip through the parking lot. I smile at everything. My drive is bombastic singing so passionate that the other drivers don't care about how off-key it is. When I sneak a little sip of sunshine, just a few drips, but it's the only thing I have left to amplify the mood.
* * *
So when I walk in the door full of fun and fancy-free, is it fair to be greeted by your frown? Okay, it's not a frown, but it's not a smile, and that's really the same thing. Especially in the face of my face's glee, the negativity get multiplied by some abstract emotional math I can't compute. But I see the answer.
For a moment I think I glimpse some merriment on your lips. But it vanishes when I appear, like I drove it away. This is the harbinger of the end. But I've seen it happen before and refused to believe it then. THrough force of will I can keep us alive.
"Baby!" I throw my arms up to help herald some joy into the domicile. "I missed you so!"
"Hi, hon," you say in lackluster monotone.
When you cross your arms, it's easier to hug you.
When I look into your eyes, it's like you've never seen mine. Warmth, kinship, romantic affection - I see you looking to find out who I am. There's something inside me you want to study, like a scientist coldly measuring a discovery to properly chart it.
I go to kiss you, and you accept it. You don't reciprocate it, but reluctantly take my gentle offer. "Your My breath smells," you remark. And so it does, but that's no excuse for the hate.
I get so angry I want to hit you. You know I wouldn't. Like maybe I've kinda, you know, pushed your. Forcefully. But never with any real malice or hurt.
But that also doesn't mean I don't think about doing it. Envision it. Allow myself to just strike you right across your smug holier-than-thou countenance.
Instead of violence, I do the sophisticated thing. I go and pour myself another drink. Under the circumstances, I could have maybe poured myself a shot of real liquor, maybe that potency would have been sufficient to wipe your irk from my mind. But we'll be entertaining company so at least one of us should remain civilized.
* * *
The car ride to the restaurant could be our redemption, an opportunity to reset the relationship. But of course you don't take the chance to make amends. No, you refuse to surrender any ground, to issue the apology I deserve for the treatment I didn't deserve.
Maybe I would initiate the round of regrets, but frankly I'm tired of being so damn responsible. Maybe you deserve there two can wage this cold war.
Are you sitting there indoor seat and solemnly reflecting on the state of us? You should be.
When that familiar favorite of ours plays on the radio do you hear the fancy-free fun of early love? Or is this just a testament to our demise, an abandoned temple to dead and unimagined gods. We used to dance to this music, but your folded arms and humorless frown couldn't be any further from a celebration.
We find street parking, and we begin the short walk to the restaurant.
But then you win. Seeing you so miserable, or maybe it's my miserableness, and my heart breaks.
Despite better judgment or stubborn pride, I lean in and kiss you, softly on the cheek in a restrained but classy manner.
It works when you can't help but smile.
"I'm sorry," I confess. I'm no longer really sure why, but the words are true because I am always so sorry when we fight.
"It's okay," you say shyly, almost as f you're embarrassed to be heard saying as much. "Me too." And I'll take that as a morale victory. Another perfect tie.
We hold hands for the walk. You feel the old magic undeniably creeping through your body. I can too when your fingernails lovingly scape themselves against my hand.
* * *
Once inside amongst the old friends we are celebrities again. Everyone loves us, loves being with us, is so happy that we're so happy. Now this is the way to start a weekend.
We make the quick rounds of greetings with girls getting hugs, the guys giving handshake-hugs to each other. With our arrival, the group can sit at its reserved table.
The uber-hip maitre d beings to lead the group away from the bar towards its long booth in the restaurant, but before we go, I want a quick drink. So much ups and downs, highs and lows can make a body thirsty. And everyone else's just looks so good.
"What do you want?" I politely ask you.
"What?" you say in astonishment.
"The bar, what are you drinking?" should this even be clarified.
You don't want to, but you sigh, shrug, cast as much tacit condescension as possible upon me in an instinctive flash. Recovering quickly, not wanting to make a scene, you suggest, "Let's just sit down. You can-- We can wait until we're at the table."
Your puppy dog eyes are big and sincere, but to think I can't see through your passive-aggressive manipulation is revolting, especially after all our time together. You act like I just suggsted taking some bath salts.
The pax is short-lived. I don't want to overreact, so I just leave to catch the bartender and let my reaction speak aloud what I think of your demands.
* * *
I arrive at the table just a moment later, and what have I missed. Some friendly rehashed anecdote by one of our posse that was probably already released and discussed thoroughly earlier in the week via email and text message? Another ho-hum conversation of the godawful traffic endured to make this occasion?
I'm glad I could get a jumpstart on the buzz with my drink, because it looks like I'll need it. Certainly everyone else is in a good mood. And to the untrained eye, you're doing swell too. You're engaged in a lively concourse with our table neighbors, smiling and nodding along with the flow of discussion. But I can see those eyes dart over to me, checking on me, wishing I wasn't here.
I drop off your wine, because indeed I am considerate still and always thinking of you and know that's what you like. I rub my hand on your back as I take the empty seat to your side. "Thanks, dear," you say in a quick aside, though the drink goes unacknowledged. THough I know it is appreciated when you finally take a drink of it many minutes later.
And so what should be a pleasant meal with friends becomes another episode of warfare.
Don't you feel their looks? Doesn't our friends' awkward judgment of our failing romance inspire you to at least put on the pretense of happiness? For the sake of at least validating the money blown on this evening out when this entire affair could have been just as easily waged in the privacy of home over the cheapness of a home-microwaved meal.
"everything okay?" I ask.
"Sure." You lie. I can hear your lies, the subtle lack of heart in the tone. I hate to admit that I've become a recent expert on how you fib.
* * *
The meal is good, I suppose. Perhaps the hype for this new joint was with th trouble. After my fourth drink, I really can't tell. I'll tell you the bar was pricey enough, where the same sip from the supermarket is now ten times the cost. Of course it wouldn't come in such a fine glass and served by such a comely server.
As the attendant departs, my gaze is met by yours, now ostensibly raised to a newfound level of accusatory indignation. The crinkling of your brow, the additional whiteness outlining your pupils, you might as well have seen a ghost slap your mother.
"What?" I say.
You shake your head in disapproval, looking away to everyone else. In the midst of this treatment, it stuns me that you can be so stunned, that your abuse is supposed to reign me in tighter like a naughty puppy. I think I'll go flirt with someone else.
* * *
So I must admit, that even though I'm sitting here talking to this tall drink of water, I'm still thinking of you. It's true. Maybe you can see how even though I'm laughing at their jokes, nodding and smiling in agreement, I'm still stealing looks at you to see if you're watching.
When i catch you peeking, I'm glad you're playing the same game. It helps put my mind at rest that this gambit has been rewarding. Mybluff hasn't been called, but hasn't been ignored.
At the end of the night, you come by to pick me up. To get up and reunite, I almost fall over but maybe that's not the booze, maybe it's my elation of being with you.
I hug you, it helps me stay on my toes. We walk to the car with my hands wrapped around you. Isn't this so much beter than holding hands?
I think I thank you for driving. Maybe I've already thanked you, but I'll say it again to express my gratitude. I'm tired of not communicating, exhausted of the stonewalling. They say over time, two people in a successful relationship can almost develop some level of telepathy. Are we there yet, baby? Not "there," as in physically home, but "there" as in, "close enough in love to communicate silently with silent language effortlessly wafting between our connected minds?" Just in case we can't use ESP, I drukenly scream my love to you - "I love you, baby!" - which makes you swerve the car wildly. And that makes a tiny bubble of vomit gag in my throat.
* * *
Home means no more clothes. If we were ever fighting befoire, it's forgotten the moment I bounce on the couch. I should get another drink, and maybe we can make some love. What is the point of all this fighting when we know it all ends happily in bliss? It's so silly to fight like children when we are grown adults. We play this game where we feel like losers the whole time, but in the end we both win.
I say it is time to move on. Let us drink to the past and fuck for the future.
I hear you disappear into the bathroom, but I'll be out here waiting. I just need one more drink.
My eyes open like exploding fireworks. My brain is the Fourth of July. The sunlight is a high-powered microwave. The passing traffic is a big brass band.
The clock says almost noon, and I am glad I've slept though so much of the hangover. Let me sleep some more.
* * *
My second time getting out of bed goes signifcantly smoother though without its own bumps. First, I find myself not in bed, but the couch. Did you banish me here, or was the exile self-inflicted? I can't remember.
I look around for you but you are not here. I can't find you anywhere except in a little scribbled note that explains your absence and missing things. In your shitty chickenscratch are some details about why you left, about me being being an asshole, and my drinking. About how there is no more us.
So everything is my fault? It's easy to make that case and then run away without having to defend your position. Perhaps you know I would crush your flimsy argument, and you are scared. You've always been frightened by the truth, and despite your lies, our love is true.
Even your whole argument is hypocrisy. If you care about me curing this alcoholism, how can you just leave me alone to die? See? How does that make any sense? Now I'm just going to get hammered all day long until you come back.
I am right, and everything is wrong.
I know you will be back.
But you never come back.
It is the night we die. Or perhaps just the last time of our dying, the final moments of our inevitable demise. The decay had begun so long ago it was difficult to remember how. But like any well-deserving virus, the cancer was only detected after it was too late. This night is our last.
* * *
And it begins so well. Every Friday evening is the best, where there is that sublime moment of the stoppage of work. The split second where work ends and freedom starts, a moment so quick it cannot be measured. A blink, from one existence where my life is hammered into wrought-iron subservience. And then the instant switch, to ecstatic freedom.
The darkness of work to the light of the weekend exhilarates me into giddy delirium. I skip through the parking lot. I smile at everything. My drive is bombastic singing so passionate that the other drivers don't care about how off-key it is. When I sneak a little sip of sunshine, just a few drips, but it's the only thing I have left to amplify the mood.
* * *
So when I walk in the door full of fun and fancy-free, is it fair to be greeted by your frown? Okay, it's not a frown, but it's not a smile, and that's really the same thing. Especially in the face of my face's glee, the negativity get multiplied by some abstract emotional math I can't compute. But I see the answer.
For a moment I think I glimpse some merriment on your lips. But it vanishes when I appear, like I drove it away. This is the harbinger of the end. But I've seen it happen before and refused to believe it then. THrough force of will I can keep us alive.
"Baby!" I throw my arms up to help herald some joy into the domicile. "I missed you so!"
"Hi, hon," you say in lackluster monotone.
When you cross your arms, it's easier to hug you.
When I look into your eyes, it's like you've never seen mine. Warmth, kinship, romantic affection - I see you looking to find out who I am. There's something inside me you want to study, like a scientist coldly measuring a discovery to properly chart it.
I go to kiss you, and you accept it. You don't reciprocate it, but reluctantly take my gentle offer. "Your My breath smells," you remark. And so it does, but that's no excuse for the hate.
I get so angry I want to hit you. You know I wouldn't. Like maybe I've kinda, you know, pushed your. Forcefully. But never with any real malice or hurt.
But that also doesn't mean I don't think about doing it. Envision it. Allow myself to just strike you right across your smug holier-than-thou countenance.
Instead of violence, I do the sophisticated thing. I go and pour myself another drink. Under the circumstances, I could have maybe poured myself a shot of real liquor, maybe that potency would have been sufficient to wipe your irk from my mind. But we'll be entertaining company so at least one of us should remain civilized.
* * *
The car ride to the restaurant could be our redemption, an opportunity to reset the relationship. But of course you don't take the chance to make amends. No, you refuse to surrender any ground, to issue the apology I deserve for the treatment I didn't deserve.
Maybe I would initiate the round of regrets, but frankly I'm tired of being so damn responsible. Maybe you deserve there two can wage this cold war.
Are you sitting there indoor seat and solemnly reflecting on the state of us? You should be.
When that familiar favorite of ours plays on the radio do you hear the fancy-free fun of early love? Or is this just a testament to our demise, an abandoned temple to dead and unimagined gods. We used to dance to this music, but your folded arms and humorless frown couldn't be any further from a celebration.
We find street parking, and we begin the short walk to the restaurant.
But then you win. Seeing you so miserable, or maybe it's my miserableness, and my heart breaks.
Despite better judgment or stubborn pride, I lean in and kiss you, softly on the cheek in a restrained but classy manner.
It works when you can't help but smile.
"I'm sorry," I confess. I'm no longer really sure why, but the words are true because I am always so sorry when we fight.
"It's okay," you say shyly, almost as f you're embarrassed to be heard saying as much. "Me too." And I'll take that as a morale victory. Another perfect tie.
We hold hands for the walk. You feel the old magic undeniably creeping through your body. I can too when your fingernails lovingly scape themselves against my hand.
* * *
Once inside amongst the old friends we are celebrities again. Everyone loves us, loves being with us, is so happy that we're so happy. Now this is the way to start a weekend.
We make the quick rounds of greetings with girls getting hugs, the guys giving handshake-hugs to each other. With our arrival, the group can sit at its reserved table.
The uber-hip maitre d beings to lead the group away from the bar towards its long booth in the restaurant, but before we go, I want a quick drink. So much ups and downs, highs and lows can make a body thirsty. And everyone else's just looks so good.
"What do you want?" I politely ask you.
"What?" you say in astonishment.
"The bar, what are you drinking?" should this even be clarified.
You don't want to, but you sigh, shrug, cast as much tacit condescension as possible upon me in an instinctive flash. Recovering quickly, not wanting to make a scene, you suggest, "Let's just sit down. You can-- We can wait until we're at the table."
Your puppy dog eyes are big and sincere, but to think I can't see through your passive-aggressive manipulation is revolting, especially after all our time together. You act like I just suggsted taking some bath salts.
The pax is short-lived. I don't want to overreact, so I just leave to catch the bartender and let my reaction speak aloud what I think of your demands.
* * *
I arrive at the table just a moment later, and what have I missed. Some friendly rehashed anecdote by one of our posse that was probably already released and discussed thoroughly earlier in the week via email and text message? Another ho-hum conversation of the godawful traffic endured to make this occasion?
I'm glad I could get a jumpstart on the buzz with my drink, because it looks like I'll need it. Certainly everyone else is in a good mood. And to the untrained eye, you're doing swell too. You're engaged in a lively concourse with our table neighbors, smiling and nodding along with the flow of discussion. But I can see those eyes dart over to me, checking on me, wishing I wasn't here.
I drop off your wine, because indeed I am considerate still and always thinking of you and know that's what you like. I rub my hand on your back as I take the empty seat to your side. "Thanks, dear," you say in a quick aside, though the drink goes unacknowledged. THough I know it is appreciated when you finally take a drink of it many minutes later.
And so what should be a pleasant meal with friends becomes another episode of warfare.
Don't you feel their looks? Doesn't our friends' awkward judgment of our failing romance inspire you to at least put on the pretense of happiness? For the sake of at least validating the money blown on this evening out when this entire affair could have been just as easily waged in the privacy of home over the cheapness of a home-microwaved meal.
"everything okay?" I ask.
"Sure." You lie. I can hear your lies, the subtle lack of heart in the tone. I hate to admit that I've become a recent expert on how you fib.
* * *
The meal is good, I suppose. Perhaps the hype for this new joint was with th trouble. After my fourth drink, I really can't tell. I'll tell you the bar was pricey enough, where the same sip from the supermarket is now ten times the cost. Of course it wouldn't come in such a fine glass and served by such a comely server.
As the attendant departs, my gaze is met by yours, now ostensibly raised to a newfound level of accusatory indignation. The crinkling of your brow, the additional whiteness outlining your pupils, you might as well have seen a ghost slap your mother.
"What?" I say.
You shake your head in disapproval, looking away to everyone else. In the midst of this treatment, it stuns me that you can be so stunned, that your abuse is supposed to reign me in tighter like a naughty puppy. I think I'll go flirt with someone else.
* * *
So I must admit, that even though I'm sitting here talking to this tall drink of water, I'm still thinking of you. It's true. Maybe you can see how even though I'm laughing at their jokes, nodding and smiling in agreement, I'm still stealing looks at you to see if you're watching.
When i catch you peeking, I'm glad you're playing the same game. It helps put my mind at rest that this gambit has been rewarding. Mybluff hasn't been called, but hasn't been ignored.
At the end of the night, you come by to pick me up. To get up and reunite, I almost fall over but maybe that's not the booze, maybe it's my elation of being with you.
I hug you, it helps me stay on my toes. We walk to the car with my hands wrapped around you. Isn't this so much beter than holding hands?
I think I thank you for driving. Maybe I've already thanked you, but I'll say it again to express my gratitude. I'm tired of not communicating, exhausted of the stonewalling. They say over time, two people in a successful relationship can almost develop some level of telepathy. Are we there yet, baby? Not "there," as in physically home, but "there" as in, "close enough in love to communicate silently with silent language effortlessly wafting between our connected minds?" Just in case we can't use ESP, I drukenly scream my love to you - "I love you, baby!" - which makes you swerve the car wildly. And that makes a tiny bubble of vomit gag in my throat.
* * *
Home means no more clothes. If we were ever fighting befoire, it's forgotten the moment I bounce on the couch. I should get another drink, and maybe we can make some love. What is the point of all this fighting when we know it all ends happily in bliss? It's so silly to fight like children when we are grown adults. We play this game where we feel like losers the whole time, but in the end we both win.
I say it is time to move on. Let us drink to the past and fuck for the future.
I hear you disappear into the bathroom, but I'll be out here waiting. I just need one more drink.
My eyes open like exploding fireworks. My brain is the Fourth of July. The sunlight is a high-powered microwave. The passing traffic is a big brass band.
The clock says almost noon, and I am glad I've slept though so much of the hangover. Let me sleep some more.
* * *
My second time getting out of bed goes signifcantly smoother though without its own bumps. First, I find myself not in bed, but the couch. Did you banish me here, or was the exile self-inflicted? I can't remember.
I look around for you but you are not here. I can't find you anywhere except in a little scribbled note that explains your absence and missing things. In your shitty chickenscratch are some details about why you left, about me being being an asshole, and my drinking. About how there is no more us.
So everything is my fault? It's easy to make that case and then run away without having to defend your position. Perhaps you know I would crush your flimsy argument, and you are scared. You've always been frightened by the truth, and despite your lies, our love is true.
Even your whole argument is hypocrisy. If you care about me curing this alcoholism, how can you just leave me alone to die? See? How does that make any sense? Now I'm just going to get hammered all day long until you come back.
I am right, and everything is wrong.
I know you will be back.
But you never come back.
