When we fight, no one wins. We both lose or it’s a stalemate.
It’s really late at night. So late that it’s probably really early in the morning. My body is aching from the fatigue of the day, longing to be horizontal under a warm blanket and forget about it all. Instead, I find myself lighting another cigarette, staring at a crack in the wall in strained silence.
The fight is on its last leg, both opponents exhausted, cuts and bruises all over our bodies. We’ve put up a hell of a fight, equally matched in sarcasm, denial, mockery and self-pity. We know each other’s weaknesses and have used them all up. There is nothing left to say.
It would be so easy to tap the mat, admit defeat and let this end. But neither are willing to give up. So, we sit in stony silence, hurt and angry, wondering where it began, how it began, over and over, justifying our harsh words and in desperate need to be heard.
I need a conclusion.
“So, are you done?”
He sighs, rubbing his eyes, his body sagging from the weight of it all.
“Are you done?” he counters.
A tsunami of emotions takes over me. I am pulled underwater, caught in the undercurrent and unable to get out. It engulfs me. I cannot breathe.
“What do you mean? Are you saying we are over….”
A pause.
“If that’s what you want.”
No. It hits me like a tight slap in the face. It’s not what I want.
Where would I live? Will it be easy to get a flat if I am divorced? Maybe I’ll keep that part out. Nosy neighbours, petty landlords, water problems, maid problems. How would we divide our time with our daughter? Would she stay with me on weekdays and with him on weekends? How would we divide the studio work? Maybe I’ll start my own thing. New furniture, oven, microwave, crockery, bed linen, curtains, towels. It would have to be two bedrooms, close by.
I am spiralling.
“It’s not what I want,” I whisper.
Silence.
“It’s not what I want,” I say again, a little loudly.
Silence.
I tear my eyes away from the crack in the wall, to look at him.
He is staring at his own crack. He lifts his head, and looks at me.
He is a mirror – open, vulnerable, defenceless, baring his soul – asking me to trust him with mine.
“Who am I to you,” I ask.
“Everything,” he replies.
. . .
This was written in response to a prompt – Who am I to you
in the Ochre Sky Writing Circle with Natasha Badhwar & Raju Tai