OK. Got it. My apologies. I thought it was clear that if we have no hot water, someone needs to call the landlord.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That is obvious. And it’s normal for me to assume that you will do it. Since you are the person who normally does that. Just like I am the one who does all the fucking laundry in this house.”
“Oh, so you do the laundry, and that makes you some sort of saint?”
“Fine. You can do your laundry, then, if it doesn’t matter who does it. Do you know how to use the washing machine?”
Ryan laughs at me. No, he scoffs at me.
“Do you?” I say. “I’m not being funny. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you don’t know how it works.”
“I’m sure I could figure it out,” he says. “I’m not as much of a complete moron as you make me out to be.”
“I don’t make you out to be anything.”
“Oh, yes, Lauren. Yes, you do. You act like you’re the most perfect person in the whole world and you’re stuck with your stupid husband who can’t do a damn thing but call the landlord. You know what? I’ll be the one who gets the hot water fixed. Since you do all the complicated stuff for smart people, like the laundry.” He starts angrily putting his clothes back on.
“Where are you even going?” I say to him.
“To see if I can fix the fucking thing!” he says, putting on his shoes with equal parts anger and haste.
“Now? It’s almost midnight. You need to stay here and talk to me.”
“Let’s drop it, Lauren,” Ryan says. He walks to the front door. His hand is on the doorknob, getting ready to leave. Thumper is resting at my feet, no idea what he’s in the middle of.
“We can’t drop it, Ryan,” I say. “I’m not going to drop it. We’ve been ‘dropping it’ for months now.”
That’s what’s really concerning about all of this. We aren’t fighting about the hot water or the Dodger Stadium parking lot. We aren’t fighting about money or jealousy or communication skills. We are fighting because we don’t know how to be happy. We are fighting because we are not happy. We are fighting because we no longer make each other happy. And I think, at least if I’m speaking for myself, I’m pretty pissed off about that.
“We have to deal with this, Ryan. It’s been three straight weeks of bitching at each other. Out of the past month, I think we have spent maybe one evening in a good mood. The rest of it has been like this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ryan says, his hand gesticulating wildly. When he gets angry, his normally confident and controlled demeanor becomes unrestrained and forceful. “You think I don’t know how miserable I am?”
“Miserable?” I say. “Miserable?” I can’t argue with what he is saying. It’s really about how he says it. He says it as if I’m the one making him miserable. As if I’m the one who’s causing all of this.
“I’m not saying anything you didn’t just say yourself. Please calm down.”
“Calm down?”
“Stop repeating everything I say as a question.”
“Then try being a bit more clear.”
Ryan sighs, moving his hand to his forehead, covering it with his thumb and fingers as if they were the brim of a baseball cap. He’s rubbing his temples. I don’t know when he became so dramatic. Somewhere along the way, he went from being this super calm, collected person to being this guy, this guy who sighs loudly and rubs his temples as if he’s Jesus on the cross. It’s as if the world is happening to him. I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He starts to, and he stops himself.
I’m not sure what it is about me that insists that he say every little thing in his head. But when we fight like this, I can’t stand to see him hold back. You know why? I know why. It’s because if you’re really holding back, you don’t even start to say it. But that’s not what he does. He does this little song and dance where he pretends he’s not going to say something, but
“Yeah,” I say. “That is obvious. And it’s normal for me to assume that you will do it. Since you are the person who normally does that. Just like I am the one who does all the fucking laundry in this house.”
“Oh, so you do the laundry, and that makes you some sort of saint?”
“Fine. You can do your laundry, then, if it doesn’t matter who does it. Do you know how to use the washing machine?”
Ryan laughs at me. No, he scoffs at me.
“Do you?” I say. “I’m not being funny. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you don’t know how it works.”
“I’m sure I could figure it out,” he says. “I’m not as much of a complete moron as you make me out to be.”
“I don’t make you out to be anything.”
“Oh, yes, Lauren. Yes, you do. You act like you’re the most perfect person in the whole world and you’re stuck with your stupid husband who can’t do a damn thing but call the landlord. You know what? I’ll be the one who gets the hot water fixed. Since you do all the complicated stuff for smart people, like the laundry.” He starts angrily putting his clothes back on.
“Where are you even going?” I say to him.
“To see if I can fix the fucking thing!” he says, putting on his shoes with equal parts anger and haste.
“Now? It’s almost midnight. You need to stay here and talk to me.”
“Let’s drop it, Lauren,” Ryan says. He walks to the front door. His hand is on the doorknob, getting ready to leave. Thumper is resting at my feet, no idea what he’s in the middle of.
“We can’t drop it, Ryan,” I say. “I’m not going to drop it. We’ve been ‘dropping it’ for months now.”
That’s what’s really concerning about all of this. We aren’t fighting about the hot water or the Dodger Stadium parking lot. We aren’t fighting about money or jealousy or communication skills. We are fighting because we don’t know how to be happy. We are fighting because we are not happy. We are fighting because we no longer make each other happy. And I think, at least if I’m speaking for myself, I’m pretty pissed off about that.
“We have to deal with this, Ryan. It’s been three straight weeks of bitching at each other. Out of the past month, I think we have spent maybe one evening in a good mood. The rest of it has been like this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Ryan says, his hand gesticulating wildly. When he gets angry, his normally confident and controlled demeanor becomes unrestrained and forceful. “You think I don’t know how miserable I am?”
“Miserable?” I say. “Miserable?” I can’t argue with what he is saying. It’s really about how he says it. He says it as if I’m the one making him miserable. As if I’m the one who’s causing all of this.
“I’m not saying anything you didn’t just say yourself. Please calm down.”
“Calm down?”
“Stop repeating everything I say as a question.”
“Then try being a bit more clear.”
Ryan sighs, moving his hand to his forehead, covering it with his thumb and fingers as if they were the brim of a baseball cap. He’s rubbing his temples. I don’t know when he became so dramatic. Somewhere along the way, he went from being this super calm, collected person to being this guy, this guy who sighs loudly and rubs his temples as if he’s Jesus on the cross. It’s as if the world is happening to him. I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He starts to, and he stops himself.
I’m not sure what it is about me that insists that he say every little thing in his head. But when we fight like this, I can’t stand to see him hold back. You know why? I know why. It’s because if you’re really holding back, you don’t even start to say it. But that’s not what he does. He does this little song and dance where he pretends he’s not going to say something, but
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