Day 51: Fighting Days

He said, "You know what you can get me the next you're at the store?"

I said, "No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

He said, "Earplugs. So I can just put them in when I want to."

We've been on break for two weeks and the storm has moved from the coast to inside our house. He's angry because I keep forgetting to turn off the space heater in our living room. Says the electric bill will be through the roof. But we live in a one-story house, I point out, and the roof is not so high. Also, I continue to leave trails of flour and oats in the kitchen. I've made an excellent multi-grain bread, but the dishes are still resting in the sink. He starts wiping down counters, using phrases that I hate, like why can't you learn to "clean up after yourself," as if I am a child who's left her toys scattered everywhere. I remind him that my bread baking is a labor of love, that it is for him. I say this because I know it will make him feel bad. The way that I feel bad for leaving this kitchen a mess. Again.

This is our state of cohabitation. But it is still 100 Days of Love and so without wanting to, I find myself perched on the couch beside him. Apologizing and trying to talk it out and promise a better next time. When what I really want to do is yell a good swear word or two just to watch the shock on his face. So he knows I'm serious. I don't. We make up and hold this fragile truce between us, creeping through the house- me snagging dirty socks from under the coffee table, him cooking a savory soup for dinner.

And for now we are good. But next time I'm out, I just might pick up a pair of earplugs. For me, of course.