My Biggest Secret

At this point, we’ve been awake for at least twenty-four hours. I need to get away. The old saying goes that at least after a fight, the make-up sex will be great. Well, I know the great make-up sex is not going to happen when it’s the crux of the argument in the first place. I go to the bathroom to cry. He comes and tells me to get back into bed. Fine. He doesn’t want to sleep next to me, so I tell him to go the couch. He does, only to moments later come back and cry that he shouldn’t have to leave his own bed. Fine. I go to the couch. After ten minutes, he comes and gets me and asks for me to come back to bed. I say no, sick of him jerking me around, especially when it’s finally daylight.

At this point, he snaps like I’ve never seen him snap before. He hurls my suitcase across the room, clothes flying in the air. Throws the dinner I’ve made from the night before to the ground, chicken wings bouncing everywhere (yet for some reason, he sets the chocolate pie down nicely on the linoleum. Too pretty to ruin?). My books, pictures of us, all of it is thrust into my arms. I’m befuddled like I’m in some sort of dream, and on no sleep, maybe I am. It’s like all bizarre dreams where you’re with someone, but it’s not really them and you’re somewhere, but the place you’re actually describing. I don’t even cry, I don’t act outwardly frightened. I just sit there waiting for him to calm down, holding my belongings, preparing to leave.

“Is this where I end it?” I think. I play the part of fed-up, strong woman and demand for my keys. He says I can stay and rest if the relationship isn’t over. The logical brain says that I should get out, that this is ridiculous, that I need to move on … the passionate brain says that I love him, there’s so much invested, and goddamnit if I don’t get any sleep there’ s no way I’ll be able to make the three and half hour drive I have to make to get home.

He knows he’s gone too far. He’s starting to shake, starting to tear up, something I haven’t seen him do in months. But for some reason, he can’t quite get a hold of himself. I can see the desperation in his eyes, the revelation that he’s made a drastic mistake. He asks me if we’ re still together, and the battle between the two sides of my brain is too much to come to a concrete decision.

“I don’t know,” I reply, groggily.

He holds me down. It’s as if his limbs want to hold me and make love to me, but I know that’ s the farthest thing from his mind, “If we’re not together, you have to leave,” he demands.

“I don’t know,” I reply again, but that’s not good enough. People should not half to make such life-altering decisions on no sleep. I’m pretty sure that’s considered torture in some countries, including this one.

“Tell me if this relationship is over, now! You can’t leave me hanging!”

I hate him.