TBT #15: Arguments

Short version this week. I’ve written 1500 words about the thematic element of the gun in Film Noir, and 1500 words about the Russian Revolution. I really hope I didn’t confuse the two. In summation, I’m sick of words.

These are the Best Things Ever for November 5, 2004.

The phone rang one morning.

I was making breakfast in the kitchen when I heard her pick it up in the other room. The walls in our apartment were paper thin, so I heard everything she said. I wasn’t eavesdropping, really. I just heard.

“Hello,” she started.

“Okay,” she said, quietly, after a long pause.

“Okay,” she repeated the word. “Okay, Okay, Okay.”

I stirred the eggs.

“Yes.” She paused. “I’ll try to be there.”

More silence.

“I hope so, too. Goodbye.”

“Who was that?” I asked, when she came into the kitchen.

“Oh,” she said, pressing herself into my back as I stood at the stove, “It was nobody.”

“Really?” I asked, “Because it sounded important.”

“No, really,” she said into the back of my neck, “It was nothing.”

I turned around to look at her. “Really?”

She smiled. “Really. Really really.”

“Like a wrong number?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Like a wrong number.”

“It didn’t SOUND like a wrong number.”

“Kiss me,” she said, bringing her face close to mine.

“Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Hide things. Things like this.”

She backed off a little. “I’m not hiding anything,” she said. “Really.”

“You are. You do.”

Her face looked hurt. “I don’t — really, I don’t. I don’t do that.”

“Who was on the phone?”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said, trying to force a smile. “Movies! Or stupid pop songs! Or things we could do today!”

I didn’t say anything.

“Come on,” she said, taking a step toward me again, “Are you going to let this ruin our whole day?”

“This is just like before.”

“It’s not just like before. It’s not — I mean, come on, this doesn’t matter.”

“You haven’t changed.”

She looked like she was going to cry.

“I just…” she started, and then stopped. Her eyes met mine.

“Why haven’t you changed?” I asked slowly.

“I’m trying,” she said, fighting tears. “I’m trying.”

“Okay.”

“This is me trying.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Say something!” she said, louder now. “Can’t you see that I’m TRYING?”

The kitchen smelled like burnt eggs.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can. And that’s the really fucking depressing part.”