Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #7

Maybe it was gone before it was there.

He knew she had a penchant for blurting off-the-cuff insults. It was a talent, he had often thought, as long as he wasn't on the receiving end. She could cut deeply if she wanted to, though during their arguments she needed awhile to get there.

They'd fought about money only once--not long before they'd both realized how things were pretty much over--and he'd come out shell-shocked and wounded when the battle diverged from simple economics to his own worth. He'd set her up, and he'd known it: "You can't balance on one foot, so how can I expect you to balance a checkbook?" he'd said. Part of him was trying to be funny, but that part didn't often succeed; he'd known that, too. He could tell from the way she dipped her shoulder that she was ready to swing at him. But like any good fighter, she'd considered her position and decided to strike differently.

"You're a shit, Chris," she'd said softly.

"That the best you can do?" he'd asked. "You think I don't know that already? How many times have you said that, anyway?"

"I never thought I'd say I hate you," she'd continued. "I've never said that to anyone."

"Then say it," he'd said, still keeping an eye on the shift in her shoulder.

"No. I won't."

"I'm disappointed," he'd said, but he was wondering how their argument about money had degenerated so quickly. "This is silly. Let's stop."

"Stop what, Chris? Maybe we should just have separate checking accounts, split the expenses, maybe. Then we don't have to worry about balancing anything but ourselves. Would that make you happy, Chris?"

"Maybe we should, I don't know. Everything else about us seems to be separate now, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

He had tried to be funny again. "I get the impression that you've lost that loving feeling."

Her shoulders had straightened, evened out a bit so that she was facing him head-on as though daring him to do something. He knew she hadn't seen his humor. "No, I haven't lost anything. Maybe it was gone before it was even there."

Then she'd walked out of the house and left him standing alone in the living room, the checkbook to their joint account opened wide on the antique table beside the sofa. He'd sat down, looked at the jumble of numbers in the checkbook register, and remembered to his high school boxing class, how he'd felt the time Ricky Parker nailed him in the jaw with a punch that had come out of nowhere.