10/5/20
I always do, I think. I haven't been in a lot of relationships, and I haven't been in a lot of fights, but something I can say with certainty is that when you know how the other person fights, you truly know each other. Weak spots. Volition to hurt. How to make up. If you make up.
I said that for dramatic tension; we always make up. It sometimes astounds me that we do. I can be so sharp-tongued, and I often even mean to be — I want to hurt in the moment, and it lingers with me after. It always feels like my fault, so I settle into that feeling, even though you make it sound like a shared blame. You have a habit of smoothing out creases that way, making things seem more even than they are. It makes me wish you'd let me wallow, even for a moment.
We don't argue often, but when we do, it feels like it's often — twice in a week with acres between. Quakes in an otherwise straight line. You look so miserable afterwards, bottom lip trembling, face flushed, and I am cold, stony, and unreachable looking at you until I am not anymore. It's seldom that I've not been carried away on my high horse. When it happens, I am guilty of forgetting that you care.
These things stay the same, in a sense. You miss dinner thinking about it, and when I urge you to eat, you aren't even hungry, and it's because I started the fight. I vow to be better. And for a time, I am. Some things stay better, but I always find a different way to be tightly wound.
To be honest, I'm surprised you're not tired of it.