Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About by Mil Millington Page A
Authors: Mil Millington
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uninvited foot pressing heavy with psychopathic stealth on the midnight stairs outside your thin bedroom door? The first warning 'thum-thum-th-th-thm-thum' of the title music announcing that the Fresh Prince of Bel Air is about to start? All bowel-looseningly horrible, that's for sure, but, for me, none can compare with this: my name.
'Ahhh, yes…' you say, nodding wisely and tapping your pipe out on the heel of your shoe. 'I see. On account of your having such a stupid name.'
An understandable mistake, but that's not what I mean, in fact. I'm actually referring to the sound of my name, being called from another part of the house, by Margret's voice.
It can happen shortly after she's returned home from somewhere. It can happen abruptly; bringing to a halt some activity – tidying, rearranging, etc. – she's been engaged in. It can happen completely out of the blue; taking me down without warning, like a sniper's bullet. It will always have the same distinctive, chilling timbre, though.
'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…'
Like Pandora's box, all the evils of the world are contained within that 'Mil'. There's anger, disappointment, frustration, accusation, wounded incredulity, choler and sadness; it declares something bad discovered, and promises something terrible to come. It's the sound of anguish mixed with the
k-chhk
of a round being pumped into the breach of an assault shotgun.
And the worst thing about it is the not knowing. 'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…' snaking into the room where I'm sitting carries with it a realisation both dreadful and blind. Margret has happened across something I've done. Or not done. Or done in a manner other than the one she'd pictured in the fantastic, surreal cinema of her mind. What can it be? Obviously, thousands of possibilities instantly campaign for my attention. It's fearful. Let me at least know my offence so I can prepare a reasonably plausible explanation. Dear God, don't leave me trying to guess which one of all the possible things I've done you might just now have stumbled upon – the sheer cruelty of that is unspeakable. But no. The simultaneous poverty and excess of 'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…' is all I'm given.
I sit there. Waiting. In my ears the air crackles – as though it were grease-proof paper being crushed in a clenching fist. Above its brittle music, I hear Margret approaching. She'll be in the room at any moment – she's swift seconds away, a single heartbeat, half a breath. Should I affect not to have heard her? Be bowed over some important thing on my lap that required my mind be an opaque, impenetrable elsewhere? Should I look defiant? Or imperious – above any trivial, mundane matters. Or maybe I could make it out of the window? It's only about fifteen feet. Yes! A good leap and I can halve the drop by landing on the roof of the car. Skid off it and be away down the street. I have my bank card. It's only a few miles to the station. By nightfall I can be in Scotland – I'll shave my head and grow a beard – adopt a Dutch accent – 'I am Jan. You have room, pleesh?' – get a job on a farm – live a simple – oh crap, there's Margret!
She stands there, looking at me. I'm cornered. All I can do now is hug a posture of innocent confusion. If Margret's fuming, then countering it with a posture of innocent – ideally slightly hurt – confusion is sure to work. It just hasn't worked
yet
. And, as I've only been trying it for about sixteen years so far, I've hardly given it a proper chance, right?
'What?' I ask. Looking around, back over my shoulder, etc. – to convey that I'm so guiltless and bemused I genuinely believe that she might have come in the room to be angry with someone else.
Margret lets the atmosphere hang there, twisting, for a few excruciating seconds before replying with one of two things: either '
Well
?' or 'I don't believe it.'
It's the most dangerous moment of all. I have to hold my nerve. If I start apologising for something, you can almost guarantee
'Ahhh, yes…' you say, nodding wisely and tapping your pipe out on the heel of your shoe. 'I see. On account of your having such a stupid name.'
An understandable mistake, but that's not what I mean, in fact. I'm actually referring to the sound of my name, being called from another part of the house, by Margret's voice.
It can happen shortly after she's returned home from somewhere. It can happen abruptly; bringing to a halt some activity – tidying, rearranging, etc. – she's been engaged in. It can happen completely out of the blue; taking me down without warning, like a sniper's bullet. It will always have the same distinctive, chilling timbre, though.
'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…'
Like Pandora's box, all the evils of the world are contained within that 'Mil'. There's anger, disappointment, frustration, accusation, wounded incredulity, choler and sadness; it declares something bad discovered, and promises something terrible to come. It's the sound of anguish mixed with the
k-chhk
of a round being pumped into the breach of an assault shotgun.
And the worst thing about it is the not knowing. 'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…' snaking into the room where I'm sitting carries with it a realisation both dreadful and blind. Margret has happened across something I've done. Or not done. Or done in a manner other than the one she'd pictured in the fantastic, surreal cinema of her mind. What can it be? Obviously, thousands of possibilities instantly campaign for my attention. It's fearful. Let me at least know my offence so I can prepare a reasonably plausible explanation. Dear God, don't leave me trying to guess which one of all the possible things I've done you might just now have stumbled upon – the sheer cruelty of that is unspeakable. But no. The simultaneous poverty and excess of 'Oh –
Miiiiiiil
…' is all I'm given.
I sit there. Waiting. In my ears the air crackles – as though it were grease-proof paper being crushed in a clenching fist. Above its brittle music, I hear Margret approaching. She'll be in the room at any moment – she's swift seconds away, a single heartbeat, half a breath. Should I affect not to have heard her? Be bowed over some important thing on my lap that required my mind be an opaque, impenetrable elsewhere? Should I look defiant? Or imperious – above any trivial, mundane matters. Or maybe I could make it out of the window? It's only about fifteen feet. Yes! A good leap and I can halve the drop by landing on the roof of the car. Skid off it and be away down the street. I have my bank card. It's only a few miles to the station. By nightfall I can be in Scotland – I'll shave my head and grow a beard – adopt a Dutch accent – 'I am Jan. You have room, pleesh?' – get a job on a farm – live a simple – oh crap, there's Margret!
She stands there, looking at me. I'm cornered. All I can do now is hug a posture of innocent confusion. If Margret's fuming, then countering it with a posture of innocent – ideally slightly hurt – confusion is sure to work. It just hasn't worked
yet
. And, as I've only been trying it for about sixteen years so far, I've hardly given it a proper chance, right?
'What?' I ask. Looking around, back over my shoulder, etc. – to convey that I'm so guiltless and bemused I genuinely believe that she might have come in the room to be angry with someone else.
Margret lets the atmosphere hang there, twisting, for a few excruciating seconds before replying with one of two things: either '
Well
?' or 'I don't believe it.'
It's the most dangerous moment of all. I have to hold my nerve. If I start apologising for something, you can almost guarantee
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