The fight

It is our first fight,
but it is a fight.
Home from errands,
the energy in the room
is different
than when I left.
I find you on the couch,
sullen.
I try to sit beside you,
but the couch is cold
and you are colder.
I hate games.
I ask why you are mad.
You say you will tell me
in time
and walk outside.
Damned if I do,
damned if I don’t,
I walk out to the Jeep
and take out the shovel,
saw,
and gloves
I just purchased.
I take them to the backyard,
to your current space,
and lay them in the grass.
I am not here to spite you.
I only want to do the work
I planned to.
I attack the dead plants
in the yard.
You sit in a chair facing away,
drinking.
And eventually retreat
back to the house.
I work for the better part
of an hour
and retire to the chair
you left,
with a beer
and a smoke.
You make your way
to the chair
beside me.
We sit in silence
until you ask,
“Who is Becky?”
I stare at you.
Becky is a friend from work.
I haven’t dated her.
I haven’t slept with her.
How could she have offended you?
You know I don’t read your emails
you say.
I know nothing of the kind.
I leave my browser open to them
every day.
But I saw the subject line
for your email to her.
I wonder again what
problem you could have with that.
But you don’t explain.
You shuck and jive
to another accusation.
There were beers in the fridge,
beers that I know
you don’t drink.
Again, I am puzzled.
You are so cryptic.
I press you for details.
They were Heinekens,
you say.
I almost laugh.
That had to be for Kristin
when we watched Saw VI
at the house.
There’s no one you should worry
less about.
But you do.
When? You ask.
You only told me about Lost
and how she missed that night.
How many women
have you had over
since we started dating?
Fuck, I think.
Do I need to report to you
every person who
crosses my threshold?
That’s bullshit.
None, I say,
not counting Kristin.
I don’t even think of her
as a woman anymore.
Just a friend.
I don’t believe you,
you say.
I only ever asked
two things of you.
Don’t cheat on me
and don’t lie to me.
So saying, you rise
and return to the house.
I sit there with the knowledge
that I have never cheated on you.
I have never lied to you.
Yet you believe I have.
I’m pissed.
I’m pretty sure it’s over.
I return to the house
and stop in the kitchen.
I collect your pipe, your pot,
and the bag I gave you.
I set them down
on the coffee table
in front of you.
You look up
from your pity party
and ask what’s going on.
I’m pretty sure you think
I’ve cheated
and I’ve lied
and I’d like you to leave.
You just look at me,
no expression,
no feeling.
I leave the house
with a beer
and a smoke
and settle back into
my lawn chair.
You come out crying
and apologizing.
You don’t want to go.
You just wanted to tell me
how you felt.
But you didn’t tell me
how you felt.
You only made accusations
without any real explanations.
Still, you try to explain
with a huffy voice
and tears in your eyes.
You don’t really think I cheated.
You don’t really think I lied.
You were just scared.
I understand, I say.
But I don’t.
Maybe we aren’t breaking up now,
but we will.