again with sullen slience
Things would be easier (I tell myself) if I had my own place.
He rummaged through the refrigerator for butter to fry an egg; after I'd told him I wasn't sure I had any and I'd have to dig around for it; and he found some and said he'd do the digging for me; and he was opening a brand new package; and I didn't even know it was mine; and I said, "seriously?" (which is thinly veiled code for "I can't believe you just did that")
And this was Monday.
And we'd had a mostly lovely weekend, even when he forgot his wallet when he was going to head home on Sunday and had to go back to my place from the bus station and decided to stay another night.
He was withdrawn at bowling Saturday night with his friends. They asked me what was up with him. He wouldn't talk to them. Declined a milk shake. The night hadn't gone as planned (restaurant spot flip flopped, arrival delays, dinner payments stiffed, game house closed early, spontaneous bowling activity replacement was more than twice as much as he anticipated), and he didn't handle it well, stopped talking, basically crossed his arms and sat in the corner, and barely went through the motions of the activity the. entire. hour.
Monday, he didn't say a word after butter, not on the drive to the bus station, not any of the very few times I tried to strike up conversation, and not as he got out to go. He kissed my cheek and got out.
And we haven't exactly spoken since.
Monday night, he texted a 'heart' -- it was how the frozen potato shreds fell into his pan; he saw a heart in it, snapped a pic to send to me. I had to stare at it a little to see.
If I had my own place (I tell myself), I'd be more relaxed.
I suspect, though, he would be too, and that might drive me a little bonkers. He already leaves his clothes on the ground for me to step on and trip over at his place and at mine. I'm cool with most chaos, but I cannot stand crap on the ground; "but it's clean" he says; even worse, I say; his floor is definitely not clean; his shoes are definitely not clean; now his freshly laundered clothes are not clean, too. And he does it at my place. And he'll sit on my clothes if they're folded or otherwise on my bed. And it drives me a little bonkers.
So, how would I feel if he were rummaging through my fridge for something I said I wasn't sure existed?
I'm afraid to find out.
He rummaged through the refrigerator for butter to fry an egg; after I'd told him I wasn't sure I had any and I'd have to dig around for it; and he found some and said he'd do the digging for me; and he was opening a brand new package; and I didn't even know it was mine; and I said, "seriously?" (which is thinly veiled code for "I can't believe you just did that")
And this was Monday.
And we'd had a mostly lovely weekend, even when he forgot his wallet when he was going to head home on Sunday and had to go back to my place from the bus station and decided to stay another night.
He was withdrawn at bowling Saturday night with his friends. They asked me what was up with him. He wouldn't talk to them. Declined a milk shake. The night hadn't gone as planned (restaurant spot flip flopped, arrival delays, dinner payments stiffed, game house closed early, spontaneous bowling activity replacement was more than twice as much as he anticipated), and he didn't handle it well, stopped talking, basically crossed his arms and sat in the corner, and barely went through the motions of the activity the. entire. hour.
Monday, he didn't say a word after butter, not on the drive to the bus station, not any of the very few times I tried to strike up conversation, and not as he got out to go. He kissed my cheek and got out.
And we haven't exactly spoken since.
Monday night, he texted a 'heart' -- it was how the frozen potato shreds fell into his pan; he saw a heart in it, snapped a pic to send to me. I had to stare at it a little to see.
If I had my own place (I tell myself), I'd be more relaxed.
I suspect, though, he would be too, and that might drive me a little bonkers. He already leaves his clothes on the ground for me to step on and trip over at his place and at mine. I'm cool with most chaos, but I cannot stand crap on the ground; "but it's clean" he says; even worse, I say; his floor is definitely not clean; his shoes are definitely not clean; now his freshly laundered clothes are not clean, too. And he does it at my place. And he'll sit on my clothes if they're folded or otherwise on my bed. And it drives me a little bonkers.
So, how would I feel if he were rummaging through my fridge for something I said I wasn't sure existed?
I'm afraid to find out.