Embers
On The Aftermath Of An Argument
The door shuts behind him, and he mushes the heels of his hands into his eyes like a pestle and mortar. This has become a frequent and somewhat soothing ritual. The calming darkness. That first quenching pull of the cigarette like he’s coming up for air. Closed eyes, head tilted back, the gentle loss of equilibrium like he’s falling off the edge of the world. Thoughts succumbing to the present moment in its intoxicating simplicity.
But it’s fleeting.
And reality gently taps him on the shoulder and says, ‘Just to let you know, this has to be dealt with.’ That’s the thing about reality, he thinks; it’s not cruel or harsh like people say. It’s not grandiose or complicated. It just is…you know?
Tonight’s argument was probably the worst of the many they’ve had in recent months. Because it was an even battle. The sheer impasse of it. The unstoppable force and the immovable object. No winner, no compromises. Just sniping each other into weary submission. He’d hate to see how it looked. How it felt was horrible. Every inch of him pulled taut with the wrangling of rigor mortis fingers and a jaw that felt like it was chewing gristle.
All so trivial now that a few moments have passed. Why were we even arguing about that? The solutions so clear now. Hapless hindsight.
It’s true they’re on the rocks. Sinking even. But that’s for tomorrow. He’s just too tired. These moments of simple quiet feel disproportionately satisfying. Relief, of course, an emotion that never stands alone; requiring some nearby pressure or angst to be felt fully.
He walks back inside. Tiles cold on his bare feet. The interrogating brightness of everything. Feeling the incessant stream of important and yet futile thoughts beginning to build again. If you love her, make it work. Do you love her? Does it even matter anymore? A resigned laugh escapes from him as he drags his hands down his face. Just get to bed. Nothing will be solved tonight.
He switches off the light. And as the kitchen is now submerged in a dream of inky shadows, he remembers what this room used to be. Their bodies colliding in an embrace as he came home from work. Kisses turning passionate against the counter. Hands wedged between the granite and her nylon leggings. They made a great team. He washed, she dried. Her body folded in howls of soundless laughter as he tried to sing. All of those rich and real moments, so full and immediate, now so impossibly intangible it sickens him. He took them for granted. I’d give anything to go back . He realises it’s stupid. A complete waste of mental resources. But he thinks it all the same. A cosmic second chance just for him. He wouldn’t waste it.
He pads down the hall, quietly opening the creaky bathroom door to brush his teeth. The tiniest sliver of moonlight illuminates the sink just enough for him to see what he’s doing. The sounds of foam and bristles in his mouth, amplified in the half-light. He peers into the mirror. Not looking, seeing. The simple but intense introspection that comes from truly observing one’s reflection. All his chaotic interiority faintly visible just below the surface. Doubts. Things unsaid. Hiding in plain sight. He was often worried she would see these flickers when she looked into his eyes, but maybe she didn’t look long enough.
He continues to their bedroom, the door half open. He can make out the hollow blue glow of her skin. That particular still energy of knowing someone is wide awake in the blackness. A familiar feeling. Not even awkward anymore. He undresses, the crackling static of nylon on hair in his ear. He lies under the duvet, leaving one leg out, straddling the cool air to his right, and her soft warmth to his left.
He can sense the light, even pressure of her lying on her back. Both of them staring at the ceiling, eyes adjusting. A tacit silence allowing each other time to process.
The spite of earlier seems so far away now. Their fingers latch together, as if returning home. That corporeal surge of intimacy, making all the earlier protestations of the mind seem so insignificant.
She rustles towards him. The gentle weight of her head nestling against his chest. Of course, they both want to stay here, in perpetual intimacy. But reality, feeling left out as it tends to do in moments like this, clears its throat at the door. Her breath now slightly louder, his heart now quicker; synchronised to break the silence.
“Are you okay babe?” she says softly.
He curls his lips together as he hmms in thought. “I’m okay, yeah, I’m sad but okay if that makes sense?”
“I understand, I feel the same.” The air of her words warm on his chest.
He gently drums the fingers of his left hand across the side of her hip. The idiosyncrasies of touch.
“And are we going to be okay?” she adds.
The jarring unanswerability of such a simple question. The childlike vulnerability of it. Ego stripped away in shadows, leaving what really matters.
The ramifications of responding with either a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ now seeming too complex. Both answers are lies. Responding with certainty would just bring more questions. How? Why? When? The only certainty is that he doesn’t know.
“I really hope so. I want us to be,” he says, now well-versed in words that are frustratingly vague and yet comforting to them both.
The room settles again. Only the hum of their breath, the occasional shift of fabric. The silence full and waiting. Then she speaks.
“Why can’t we just get along babe?”
He takes a slightly longer inhale, his heart rising as if it has the answer. “We can get along. We just have to work for it,” he responds.
She traces her fingernails across his chest. Goosebumps awakening.
“Why does it have to be work? Why can’t it be easy? What happened to the lightness?” Her frustration mounting in each sentence.
It was true, he thought. Their connection had lost a certain ease. Conversations at dinner stuttered. Eye contact made him feel exposed. They used to gorge on every second they had together. Recently, he’d counted the hours until it was acceptable to go to bed. Was it really love? Or simply desire, energy and novelty? Infatuation that masqueraded as more, but was eventually unmasked
“Well?” she says, and only then does he realise she’s been waiting for him to speak.
He speaks without knowing what will come out. “Right now it’s hard. But that’s the stage we’re at. Love is something to work on. It isn’t easy forever.”
Sounds right, but what do those words even mean? Language his only tool, such a blunt one. Always just saying the right thing like a cornered politician. Reverting to diplomacy because the truth is too messy.
She absent-mindedly mmms, repositioning herself slightly. Still connected, but now clinging more than embracing.
The sense of hopelessness builds in him again. Is this worth it anymore? A clean break is best, maybe? But you’ll never find anyone like her? His mind frustrates him. Thoughts at once both appearing and dissolving. An endless rally of points and counterpoints. Trying and failing to conceptualise that which can only be felt. Exhaustion consuming him, but never granting him rest.
Her breath is slow and their legs are woven like fingers in prayer. He can sense all of this. And it sickens him. Too many moments like this. Bodies close, yet his mind roaming isolated. The guilt of his frayed thoughts amplified through her softest touch. This shameful and aching intimacy. Yet for comfort, he still clings to her. To the soft, decomposing shape of what was once strong. And the tighter he holds, the quicker it seems to collapse, slipping through fingers like rot.
Almost imperceptible, but something is different in her now. Rhythmic exhales now more jagged. Quiet tremors underneath soft skin. His instincts now so finely tuned to these situations. A sixth sense to know when something is wrong, but powerless to intervene. Futile awareness.
Her tears slalom down her cheek like skiers down a well-worn groove. An expected outcome, inevitable perhaps, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Her sobs now verge into convulsions, as if the pain is escaping too quickly. Each anguished exhale its own sound, its own story.
His tears build now too. Eyes that can’t hold it in any more. His face contorting in painless agony in the shadows. If her sadness flows, his sputters. Tears spasming out of him like he’s choking.
They lie there, at once both sharing and doubling each other’s sadness. The sounds of their abject and aching hearts in harmony.
His mind wanders. Their happy memories rising in the darkness. Not to comfort, but to wound. That’s the cruelty of it. That the good and bad times in a relationship don’t cancel out, but feed each other in a diametric anguish.
Eventually, their tears too grow tired. Skin soaking up their residue of sadness like parched soil. Reality, although constant, does grant the occasional reprieve. Even hurt and suffering need time to recharge.
In a contemplative hush, silence soothes the room. A different type than before. The kind where there is much to say, but not the energy to say it. The storm between them, now spent. Not resolved, not forgiven, but momentarily stilled.
Both subtly and suddenly, he awakens. The darkness unchanged, familiar enough to reassure him he hadn’t been gone long. Sleep came without permission but with care. She too is asleep, he notices her finger hooked lightly around his thumb. A thread between them. Frayed, tangled, but unbroken. They’ve hurt each other tonight. They might do it again. But still, they’re here. And that has to count for something, he thinks.
He turns his gaze to his left. The obscure glow of her face. Her features more sensed than seen. His thoughts crystallising now. I love you. I want to work on this. The lucidity of this feeling striking him, so sharp, so simple. If only she could see it. If only he had.
He feels the weight of his back on the bed. Heavy, grounded, yet also light — again like he’s falling off the edge of the world. Every previous moment of agitation, frustration and doubt is past. His eyes seal, and he thinks of the kitchen. What it used to be. The warmth, the laughter. He’ll go there in the morning, switch on the light, and try again.