Just Apologize

“God, would you stop looking at me like I’m a pubic hair on your bar of soap?” she cried, daggers shooting. “I can’t believe the stuff you say, sometimes. Can’t you just apologize?”

I glowered and replied, “I didn’t sign up to be the tennis balls on the bottom of your walker. It’s too much of a drag. Supporting you is one thing, but--”

“So what are you saying?”

“You asked for my opinion, and I gave it to you. You wanted validation but I gave you honesty instead. You wanted me to lie, but I’m not gonna lie to you.”

“But you lie all the time!” she protested.

“Not to you,” I insisted, raising a finger. “When we first hooked up, I fibbed about liking your dumplings, but that’s all.”

“You didn’t like my dumplings?”

“Not a giant fan, but we know each other better by now, so--”

“Yes, the honeymoon phase is officially over,” she said, sullen.

“Should we just break up, then?”

“Are you being serious?”

“It’s a serious question, yes.”

“Do you want to break up?” She had an injured look.

“Well, we keep fighting over the stupidest subjects. What’s more, you keep trying to make me apologize. You keep getting offended. To me, it seems like you use the fact that you’re offended as a tool of manipulation.”

“That’s because you say the most offensive shit all the time,” she argued. “To me, it seems like you don’t even care.”

“Babe, I care,” I said with an earnest look. “I just don’t like being told what I can and can’t say. It’s not like I’m full of malice or contempt. I’m just joking, and you know that.”

“Can’t you just think before you open your mouth?”

“What, like they’re forced to do in North Korea?”

“You just blurt stuff out like Trump on Twitter. It’s idiotic.”

“You’re saying I’m presidential?” I said with a grin. “Why, thank you.”

“Would you please not scoff when it’s clear that I have hurt feelings?”

“I can try, but--”

“That’s all I’m asking,” she interrupted. “Just a bit of compassion. I’m not asking you to be Christ on the cross, but if you could hold back just a little? For me?”

I heaved a sigh. It wasn’t a big ask. Then again, I feared compromise. I’d seen so many men cave under the pressure of their women. Mark Twain might say they succumbed, that they became sivilized. I admired Huck Finn and felt bad for Tom Sawyer. One was free as the wind while the other was constricted by a lardy dardy world of propriety.

“If you really do care,” she went on, “you might think about my feelings before you--”

“Why are we together? Why are you even with me? When we first got together you thought I was funny. You used to punch me in the arm whenever you thought that I crossed--”

“I ask myself that all the time,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you. Do you really care about me?”

“I do.”

“Then can’t you at least--”

“Like I said, I’ll try. Only cuz I love you.”

“You were ready to break up with me a second ago.”

“Well, we still could, but only if you really want to.”

Now she heaved a sigh, but I saw that she was appeased, more or less.

“Love you,” I said again.

“So you say.”