Bottom of the glass

She looked at the bottom of her glass and imagined what it’s like there, looking up at the only way out. She’d slip down the sides, clawing at unforgiving smoothness.

She tried, again, to talk to him about her place in his life. Yet, she didn’t want to talk about his life. She wanted to talk about a life lived together.

She asked him, “What about building together?”

He answered “Why?”

She pretended not to be immediately angry.

“Because we are partners, and partners build together.” She felt stupid explaining this, as if she were the one not understanding the situation.

He did not seem phased, only confused in his response, “Why would we need to build something new when I have my own beautiful life right here? All you have to do is move in.”

He paused.

“But you can’t get mad when it takes me a while to get used to you.”

What the fuck? “What?”

“You know how you have to get used to having a guest?”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“But I’m not a fucking guest.”

She stopped pretending she was not immediately angry.

She slammed her glass down, her drink flying out and soaking the table.

“I’m your goddamn WIFE! Being married means being PARTNERS! It’s about wanting to build shit TOGETHER!”

He moved to clean the spill but she wasn’t done yet.

“It’s about being TOGETHER, building TOGETHER. I am not a goddamn trophy you can put on the shelf with your other prizes. I get a fucking say in my life, and I want it to be OUR life. You have this idea about where YOU’RE going to live, but where am I going to live? Am I so small to you that we got married and you still don’t think about where WE were going to live?”

Why did she have to fuckin walk him through this? A partner should not have to walk the other through being considerate of life TOGETHER.

Why couldn’t he choose to love her more than prioritizing himself? Did he know she chose him every goddamn day?

But that was the work, right? All relationships are work, right? Unless -

”I don’t know how else to fuckin describe it to you. I take a brick, you take a brick, and we build the cornerstone together. I don’t want to sit back and enjoy watching you do the work of building a life, because then it will not be MY work within OUR work. This is the kind of work that you do in a hobby, and our relationship does have to be a hobby. Hobbies are fun! We do them because they are fun! Because they are satisfying! I want our relationship to be a fuckin hobby because if it’s a fuckin hobby to both of us, then we want each other. If you’re not working in this hobby with me, then there is no partnership. If we are both trying the same hobby but can’t find a good way to work together, then we need to separate. If we each have our own strategies and they don‘t line up, then we have to let go. We stop doing the work, not because we do not love each other, but because it is no longer satisfying. Loving each other should not come at the expense of our minds.”

She wanted to stop.

“Relationships have to be satisfying. They have to be reciprocal. They REQUIRE tit-for-tat because you want to be considerate. You want to repay people’s kindness, and even selfishly want others to repay your kindness too.”

She couldn’t stop.

“You have to be better about it. You have to, you have to, YOU HAVE TO. You are not entitled to my work just because others didn’t do work for you, when that was their whole responsibility.”

She wouldn’t stop.

“You are not entitled to MY work because OTHERS didn’t do it for you.”

She focused on the next breath as a distraction from not being able to breath. Maybe it is the same thing as intentional breathing, but she felt the need for distraction more than intention.

The next breath will be better. The next breath will be easier. The next breath will be where love feels easy between us.

She didn’t want to go off like a bomb. He’ll tell others she was always blowing up, that she was always going to be emotionally violent in the way she left. But he won’t tell them that she was trying. Maybe he didn’t even know. Maybe he felt as she did - that the other was not trying enough, if at all.

But she knows he won’t tell them that she was trying to self-diffuse. There is no going off like a bomb when you just shut yourself off.

She had become an automaton for him, one who got up and down and could still relax but not really because automatons don’t relax. They have no need to. But even machines need looking after and maintenance. She was simply asking for maintenance.

His words cut through her, “You’re asking too much.”

If she had metal skin she would have been fine. Even when he added:

“I have to work on my own life first.”

She had lived too long in the fantasy that they would grow together in the way she hoped. Instead, he wanted a puppet that was grateful he held the strings.

“You have a right to it. But you shouldn’t have fuckin married me then.”

At the bottom of her glass she would have to rub and erode the sides until there were grooves her feet could barely balance on. She would have to get out fast.

Don’t slip. Don’t fall. Don’t look down. Reach the lip of the glass until you can flip yourself over and fall onto the table. There will be no soft landing, but you’ll be free.