Greg and his tidy bunker verses his epic Chicago messes, and his not listening to me or trusting my judgment.
I didn’t try to temper my glower. Instead, I gave into it. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to be angry, but then . . . it never was. I was always choosing to suppress my inconvenient feelings, and I didn’t want to do it anymore.
“What’s wrong?” He stared at me with wide eyes.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning?”
“Last Saturday, you made muffins,” I blurted.
So, maybe not the beginning, or the most important of my grievances. But it’s a start.
His gaze moved from side to side, like he was searching for a trap. “Yes?”
“You didn’t do the dishes.”
His frown was immediate. “Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. You left the dirty muffin tin on the counter. And you left several dishes in the sink to soak. And then, the counters weren’t wiped down.”
“Oh my God. You’re right.” He clutched his heart like he’d just been stabbed. “How can I ever make it up to you? What will be the appropriate restitution? What will we do? How can you possibly go on?”
I ignored his sarcastic dramatics, which usually would make me laugh, and stayed my course. “And wiping down the counter—not sprinkling it with Comet and leaving it overnight. That’s just making more of a mess. That’s not doing the dishes.”
“This should have been your thesis topic in college.”
“And then the dishwasher—”
“Here we go.” He rolled his eyes and turned away from me, crossing to the cot and taking off his socks. I’d brought up how to load the dishwasher before, so his reaction didn’t surprise me.
“Everyone knows plates go on the bottom and glasses go on the top.”
“Everyone? Really? Every person in the world knows this?”
“Everyone but you.”
“You are harboring an unhealthy amount of dish-related resentment.” Greg tossed his socks into a bucket by the shelves and stripped off his shirt, throwing it into the bucket as well.
“There is no magical dish fairy,” I grumbled. But I knew my anger wasn’t really about the dishes.
Well, it was. And it wasn’t.
It was about . . . a lack of respect for my time.
I was just about to voice this conclusion when I realized Greg was approaching the bathtub. And he was shirtless.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He unbuttoned his pants and unzipped them.
Perhaps it didn’t make any sense, but I didn’t want Greg to see me naked. Not when I was still furious with him. Not when he was angry with me. Even though we’d been together for eighteen years, married for fourteen, and made two children together, when we were arguing I didn’t like the vulnerability of bare skin.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I sat forward in the tub, hiding my nakedness. “We haven’t talked through everything yet. I’m angry with you, and I know you’re still upset with me.”
He shrugged. “Then we’ll have angry intercourse.”
“We’re not having intercourse.”
“Then I’ll give you angry cunnilingus.”
Damn him, but that made me laugh.
Greg’s eyebrows bounced once on his forehead and he grinned, his pants falling to the ground.
“I don’t want any of your angry oral sex, thank you very much.” I crossed my arms over my chest, endeavoring to keep my expression stern . . . and failing.
“Of course you do. Angry oral sex is the best kind of oral sex. And we are so rarely angry with each other. We should take advantage of this opportunity.” His thumbs hooked into his boxers with the intent of pulling them down.
“Do not take off your boxers.”
Greg didn’t remove his boxers, but he didn’t withdraw the threat of his thumbs either. “You know, I’ve heard it’s a good idea to fight while naked. I think I read that in a very important medical text book written by Albert Einstein’s cousin, Dr. Olga Einstein.”
“You are a dirty liar. You did not read that in a medical book and you did not tell me that your assignment was in Nigeria. I’m not ready to forgive you for lying to me.”
“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness, Fe.” His expression and voice hardened, losing its trace of teasing.
“I noticed.” My tone was equally harsh. “And that’s why I haven’t given it to you.”
Greg crossed his arms over his bare chest, gritting his teeth, his eyes flashing fire. “Okay. Fine.”
He glanced around the space; finding the chair, he dragged it to the side of the tub. He sat on it, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and glared at me.
“I couldn’t tell you about the assignment in Nigeria. I accepted it on the condition that I wouldn’t be able to divulge my whereabouts or the purpose to anyone, even you.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I connected the dots. “So you lied to me.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“Of course I see something wrong with that. Do you think I wanted to lie to you? Do you think it was easy for me?”
“So you, what? Hoped I wouldn’t find out?”