The air is thick with the stench of conflict. He still isn’t understanding. I bite my lower lip, cross my arms and stare at the boat shoes on his feet to keep myself from crying.
I’m completely drained and out of energy. He doesn’t understand how cold he can be. How every time I share something about my internal world, he shuts down completely.
He’s smart as hell. He’s an engineer, and he understands a lot of shit. But he can’t understand a simple case of hurting my feelings.
“I just don’t get why you’re so sensitive Jen,” he says to me, shaking his head. His square frames balance evenly atop his nose. I hate how attractive he still manages to be, even in my fit of rage.
“I swear talking to you is like talking to a wall!” I say. “You never care about how I feel!” I stomp away from him, slamming the door behind me.
“Well, do that then! Talk to the wall. That’s logical of you!” he bellows from outside of our bedroom.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s being sarcastic or honest about the logic thing.
I hear his thundering footsteps fading away. He’s heading to his man cave again. The usual.
I throw myself onto the bed. Laying on my back, I look up at the ceiling, twirling my thick braided hair around my index finger.
I wonder what would happen if I did just start talking to the wall. Maybe I should just look to the good old slab of masonry for consolation.
Maybe then I could just lean back and appreciate my man’s logic, his brain, and his provider nature.
Maybe then I’ll let my man be who he clearly is; my robot