A little break

[muckefuck]

In my head, there's a whimsical, chatty post about the last six days or so. I've been composing basically from the moment I left my house last Monday evening--listening for droll quotes, recasting descriptions, embroidering incidents, and so on and so forth. Last night, I was too tired to write out this entry, so I thought I'd get it done today. But that's not how it turned out.

monshu has an invisible switch. All it takes to throw is a few idle words, and you will never know in advance what words these will be. You only find out after they've been spoken and he instantly changes from the kindest, sweetest, cheeriest, most thoughtful person into the world into a mute taciturn troll who doesn't give a fig for anyone. This morning, while fixing oatmeal, his switch got tripped and he stormed off to the computer room. We basically didn't say a word to each for the next five hours.

For the first couple of these, I sat at the computer and seethed. I wanted to catch up on LiveJournal, but I was too distracted from the script in my head which had itself switched over from bons mots concerning my family's foibles to all the hurtful things I would say to my boyfriend if he were here in front of me and the first-one-who-speaks-loses hadn't been in effect. Fortunately, he had toddled off to bed at this point.

As it grew closer to 2 p.m., I realised two things: (1) he showed no signs of getting up from his nap and (2) there was nothing for lunch in the house. So I washed up, got dressed, and headed off to El Chorrito for a sandwich. Already as I strode through the cold still air, I could feel my mood lightening. By the time I was sipping my chocolate ("No hay champurrado hoy.") and listening to the tongue-in-cheek tongue-lashing the waitress was giving a smart-alecky customer, the inglorious moment of anti-argument was a fading memory.

I asked for directions to the nearest pharmacy, hoping there's be one closer than the Walgreens up at Howard Street, but that was the only one they knew about. So I began walking, thinking I'd catch a bus at some point. But I'd hardly reached Lunt when I decided instead to head east and try my luck on Sheridan instead, in the process giving myself a little retail therapy at The Armadillo's Pillow, my local used bookstore that I'd never been in. By now, my spirit was singing; it felt good to be out on the streets alone in a part of the city I knew but not well, charming little surprises (a cornice here, a new pub there) around every corner.

Tomorrow, after we've both had a night to sleep on it, I'll sit down monshu and see if we can't find some way to avoid these nasty little fallings-out. But for now, I'll collapse into the bed he's warmed with one of my newly-purchased books to peruse and contemplate the marvel of freedom, love, and leisure that is my life.

Comments

[muckefuck.livejournal.com]

That's certainly part of it; there are things which, once said, can never be unsaid, and I'm very happy that I never actually came out with half of the vicious, hurtful things that popped into my mind when I was really furious with someone. On the other hand, silence is hurtful, too, and that needs to be acknowledged, even if it's only a refuge and not meant as an attack. The problem is that I hate those moods of his so much that I carefully avoid any topic I think might spark one of them--and then things don't get communicated between us that really need to be.