He Looks Defeated

The night was long, agitated and restless. “Lover, lover, please stop grinding your teeth.” It starts with kisses and are-you-okays, what’s-wrongs and sweet little wake-ups. But as the night progresses he’s far less kindhearted and by morning he looks at me sideways and angry. My jaw hurts and he feels a little vindicated – somehow retribution for his sleepless night.

This is the price of sugar. After that first bite of the hot fudge sundae, piled high with whipped cream, I feel the vessels tighten at the base of my neck and my toes begin to curl. I’ll be angst ridden all night and wake up tired for the noise I’ve made but slept through clearly more peaceably than him. He growls even when he comes home from work, hours have gone by for him to place this neatly in the past, but he remembers and again those sideways venomous glances.

I explain how it’s not something I can control, that it’s not purposeful. He vows never to go out for ice cream again. “You just refuse to feel guilty for anything.” “Yes, you’re right. I do. I don’t like it and I’m not going to feel it.” He looks defeated.

We go out and speak whimsically about this and that over dinner. By the time the bill arrives all is set right with the world. He no longer craves that I feel the sorrowful guilt of any misfortunate oaf stuck somewhere in limbo or the upper rings of hell. And being as I haven’t or didn’t or don’t, we’re at least on equal ground where neither or us thinks that I should.