Near the end, you never wake up with more than half the blankets, even though you’ve said something before. You said it meekly, but Dan likes this about you—you quiet, gentle man, meekness of a boy. He rolls away from you, and the blanket only covers your left leg.
His love language, he says, is physical touch, but apparently not when he’s facing away from you. “I’m not some bitchy little spoon,” he says when you wrap your arm over his shoulder and scoot in for warmth.
When you get up, you whisper, “I’m leaving,” and he shouts, “who are you going to go to? You don’t have anyone.”
You say, “No, honey, I’m just going to sleep on the couch. It’s too cold in here.”
He’s right, though. The only family the two of you speak with is his mother.
On the couch, you toss and turn and finally doze off around 4:00. Around 6:30, he wakes you with a kiss. It’s like nothing’s wrong.
All day, you’re exhausted, yawning every other minute. On Fridays, you go to the cafe with his mother. The two of you met five years ago when you ran into her at an antique store. She recognized you from her son’s Instagram. She invited you to coffee, and you’ve met weekly ever since.
She’s wearing a purple shawl that tickles your neck when she kisses your cheek. You’re sitting outside, and the seat you’ve chosen has a blunt metal piece that juts out and pokes your leg. You yawn throughout brunch.
You know her to be the type of mother who loves her son unconditionally, but she also knows when he’s being a stupid fuck.
“He’s just being a stupid fuck,” she says when you tell her about his outburst last night.
Then you tell her this: you’re worried he thinks you think he thinks you want to leave him, and that makes you think he might leave you first, which makes you think you might as well pack up.
She says, “Darling, your mind is beautiful, but it thinks too much, and also maybe you speak too quickly for some to understand.”
She tells you about how she, too, used to speak too quickly, and it would stress her husband out. He’d snap from fine to enraged, and once he even hit her.
“The stupid fuck hasn’t been hitting you, has he?” She asks, and you say and shake your head no.
Then you pause and say, “Only when I ask him to.”
His mother laughs. “Oh, our conversations are always such a breath of fresh air, sweetheart.”
Your joke has an added but, which you leave unvoiced. But I’m starting to think he likes it a little too much.
You dig your leg into the blunt metal to keep yourself awake. You stifle a yawn. She finishes her scone. She holds her hand to your face, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“Just think before you speak,” she says. “But I know you know that.”
Tonight, you tell Dan you’re tired, but he kisses your neck in a way he knows makes you bend to his will. You’d almost fallen asleep.
When he fucks you on your back, he puts his hands on your chest and uses it for leverage. You moan, not because he’s skilled, but rather because you can’t really breathe with his hands there.
“I can’t really breathe,” you say, and he shifts his hands and stumbles. He resteadies himself. You yawn.
“I thought you didn’t mind not breathing.” He winks and, without warning, pulls you up by your hair so the two of you are eye level. You wince and gasp, wide awake now, and he says, “I thought you liked this,” this time firmly.
“It just caught me off guard,” you say. He’s still inside you, and when he thrusts again, you flinch and pull away.
“I’m always doing something wrong, aren’t I,” he says when you put on your underwear.
“No, I just, I’m feeling weird. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well somehow, I’m always the bad guy.” He raises his voice. “Can’t do anything right.”
“Can I just,” you pause. “I need to pee real quick.” You get up and he grabs your arm.
He tightens his lips and takes a quick breath before saying, matter-of-factly, “You don’t communicate enough.”
“I said, I need to pee real quick,” you snap, and he lets go of you.
You sit on the toilet for a few minutes. You don’t pee, just breathe in, out. You close your eyes, but you’re worried if you keep them closed for more than three seconds, you’ll fall asleep on the toilet. You force your eyes to stay open.
His anger doesn’t scare you. He just seems unreasonable. You flush nothing and wash your hands. You rehearse what you’ll say so it doesn’t sound like you’re about to cry. Deep breath in.
He’s turned out the lights.
In the morning, he’s normal again. He cooks breakfast. He hums. It’s like you’re on a honeymoon. Sometimes, you wish you’d gotten married, not that you find the act necessary.
You remember attending a friend’s wedding. You knew they wouldn’t last, but they said their vows with a soulful, contractual earnestness that had given you faith in their relationship. And how terrible, everyone whispered when they divorced a year later. They seemed so in love on their wedding day. The chatter circled the friend group, and you and Dan cited this as just another reason to stay unwed. No one needed to be involved in your love life, seeing such a private thing as devotion laid bare in a contract.
He places both your plates at his spot on the table. He thinks playful teasing lightens the mood after an argument. He asks, “Is baby boy hungry?” You play along as a means of finding common ground. He’s smiling. Your mouth smiles back, but your eyes feel glazed over.
He whirs as he airplanes your food toward your mouth before tipping it onto your new cream-colored shirt. He laughs. You snatch his napkin and dab at your shirt. “What the fuck, Dan?” Syrup seeps permanently into the linen.
You grab at the fork, and Dan pulls it back, saying “Nuh-uh, not until you’re ready to be a good boy.”
“I’ve had a long week,” you say, and you had. Your boss just announced possible downsizing. You’ve slept only two or three hours each night. “I just want one weekend where I’m not… Can I have my plate now?”
His eyes dim a shade, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s actually going to give you the plate. After all, you’d agreed not to marry. He doesn’t owe you anything.
“I just don’t know why you’re always so agitated,” he says.
“It’s not that, it’s just—“ You yawn to take time to think. “I’ve been exhausted, and people at work are being childish, and I don’t need—”
“So I’m childish?”
“No, that’s— Just give me my food.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Dan, plea—”
“It’s always dreary with you. You can’t take a fucking joke.”
“Give me my fucking pancakes,” you shout. He’s not used to you raising your voice, so you breathe in, calm down. “I’m exhausted, Dan. I’m not sleeping well, and I can’t think of the right words to say, and I haven’t had anything to eat because you thought it would be hilarious to dump the largest mouthful of sticky pancakes onto my new shirt. So give me them, you dick.”
You white-knuckle your fork and knife.
He slides you your plate.
“Don’t talk to me until I finish these. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.” You take a bite. He didn’t mix the batter enough. Too much flour. He’s usually a much better chef. You’re chewing, and you start crying.
The cries turn to sobs. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. You can’t look at him. Snot streaks down your face. You imagine what might happen next:
I
He scoots his chair next to yours and rubs your back. Technically, this violates your rules, but your body folds into him. You take a bite while leaning on his shoulder. His body is warm. You finish the pancakes and fall asleep.
II
He goes into the living room. You hear him on the phone with his mother, and you pretend not to care what they’re saying. Whenever he calls her to complain about you, he leaves her on speakerphone so it’s loud enough that you could hear, but only if you were eavesdropping. If you bring it up with him later, he says “Oh, so you don’t trust me enough to have a conversation with my own mother?” You hear him rambling off some skewed account of what happened. He stops talking, and there’s silence on the other line. You know she’s taking a breath in and out, letting out a hmmm to give herself time to think, something she told you to try. Her silence lasts practically a minute. He’s bouncing his leg on the couch so quickly that the frames on the wall start to rattle. “Well,” she finally starts to say, then pauses again, and Dan snaps back, “just fucking say what you’re thinking. God, no wonder you and Dad couldn’t figure things out. No one here says what they’re actually thinking,” and he hangs up.
III
You take a few bites. He’s fidgeting with the bracelet you got him when you moved in together. You’re hit with a sense of clarity: you need something more. You shove your chair back and pull him to his feet and lock your lips to his. He’s taken aback, which lets you pin him against the wall. His head clunks, and he winces, but you don’t really care. This is how the two of you used to kiss, only it was him pushing you against the wall, the way you said you liked it, him forcing his tongue into your mouth, him grabbing your ass, him lowering you to your knees. But now, it’s him who leans under your weight, who lets himself fall to his knees worshipping you because he has no other option. He unbuckles your belt, unfastens your pants. You put your dick in his mouth. It fully hardens as he sucks on it. At first you let him determine the momentum at which his head moves back and forth, but after a while, you pin his head back and start slowly thrusting your hips. He gags, and you stay there. You stay there just past the point of what you’d find bearable. “That’s right,” you say after pulling out. “I tell you when to breathe.” You don’t hold him there too long this time because that’s the type of person you are, the type who lets a lover get a breath in so they have that moment of exhilaration, that rush. “Don’t stop,” you say when he takes a break. There are tears in both of your eyes. He throws himself into the task. His lips are so soft. You don’t know why he doesn’t do this more often.
IV
He says, “I love you.” You don’t say anything. He says it again like a command. You thud your silverware on the table and glare at him. “Wow,” he says. “Touchy,” and you let out one long, angry “ha.”
V
He just sits there like some stupid fuck, some wounded animal. You feel yourself begin to pity him, and you wonder how to put him out of his misery, what that entails. You would raise your butter knife. His eyes would widen. The blood would have the same consistency as syrup. You’re chewing and beginning to think it’s possible you’ve overreacted. He didn’t deserve to be lashed out at like this. The pancakes are so dry, but you finish every bite. You apologize, just a simple “I’m sorry. I think I just need more sleep.” You lock the bedroom door and cocoon yourself in the comforter. When you wake up hours later, you’re drenched in sweat.
VI
You’re crying so hard you choke on a bite of pancake. He fails the Heimlich. The last thing you see is him dialing 911 and then hesitating a few seconds before hitting call.
VII
“Why am I always the bad guy,” he yells at you after you take three more bites. You want to say What the fuck did I say about finishing my breakfast? You want to say Because you’re always the bad guy, but you can’t because you’re the type of person who takes a second to think, who rephrases you hurt me to I was hurt. You jab your butter knife into the pancakes and it makes a loud scratch. You look him in the eye and scrape the knife against the plate. He hates loud squeaking noises. You know this well. His left brow twitches, and you see his eyes fill with the same hunger they have when you ask him to hit you during sex. You think of how you could egg him on just enough for him to slap you. If he slaps you, even once, you can leave and your friends won’t call you crazy, because it would be crazy to leave him, wouldn’t it. Over a pancake. And where would you go, remember?
VIII
You don’t look up for a long time. You don’t eat either, just sit there. You hear his chair scratch against the floor. The front door squeaks open. You’ve been meaning to oil the hinges. The door slams, and you go to lock it.
IX
“Baby, I wanted this meal to be special,” he tells you. He claps his hands twice. The lights dim. The radio begins to play “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. You look down. The pancakes are waffles now, which are your actual favorite breakfast food. Turtle doves fly in a circle around you. He helps you to your feet. He stumbles as he goes down on his right knee. You hate Taylor Swift.
X
You shovel another bite of pancake into your mouth. It contains a compacted mass of unmixed flour. You can barely swallow it. You’re not sure you can finish. You’re too exhausted.
None of them sound that exciting to you
“Okay,” you say. “You can speak now.”