The Misunderstanding

God, those arguments. We argued over nothing, over a great expanse of time. You insisted that those spirited words meant something, that it was part of the “hard work” that helps a relationship succeed.I believed that was a bunch of nonsense, and would insist that it was just the result of you as the recipient of a jargon implant from some new age corporation you had paid thousands of dollars to in order to become slightly more tolerable.

And then you would counter, in a manner befitting someone who HAD been subjected to feel-good euphemisms, with the most unrealistic smile, and poorly-attempted attitude of tolerance for my words. You didn’t want to hear opinions other than your own. Neither did I. How strange it seems that we lasted as long as we did, wasting each other’s time with our pettiness, and possibly having missed the chance to know someone who could have been a soulmate.

You called last week to ask for a couple of things you had left behind. You stated, between tears, that it was only fair to ask for them back since it was over – it being the third time over. I wondered aloud if I should return the said items in the same manner in which my belongings had been delivered to me – anonymously, with a knock on the door and a running out-of-sight. I have to agree that this was far less painful than the few days prior to the possession exchange, which came to be known as The Great Buyout. You know, the ritual that occurs when a couple, knowing the end of a relationship spent in cohabitation is near, places a monetary value on every object purchased within their abode, no matter how tiny or insignificant that object might be.

I wrote the check for $110 that day to cover your value of our palatial estate, and you whined. As if anything we had purchased at Value Village was really going to appreciate in value. You insisted that ten dollars would have been a fair price for the blender. You had to be kidding, right?

And there we go again. You’re not here, and we still argue.