This Is Between Us by Kevin Sampsell Page B

somewhere quiet, I would say half of a sentence and stop, just to see if you were paying attention. “What were you saying?” I hoped you’d ask.
    But maybe you thought muttering half sentences was how I spoke—my own personal pattern of speech. Or maybe you didn’t need many clues to what I was thinking.
    Sometimes, when these thoughts were running through my brain, you’d be saying something to me but I wouldn’t be listening.
    …
    If we were arguing about something and I was wrong, I would eventually admit it. And if you were wrong, you would usually surrender too. But if we were both wrong, it would go on forever, because neither of us wanted to be the first to give in. I couldn’t think of any sentences for my mouth, just small, failing statements that squatted between parentheses in my brain. They’d never stand up straight and move forward. We gave each other the silent treatment until something indefinable cracked between us. Something larger than language.
    …
    We started bickering over small household things, too. I always thought you had the heat up too much and if I turned it down, you’d get mad and pretend like you were freezing. I slept in only boxers, you slept in layers—long-sleeve T-shirt, shorts, pajama top and bottoms, sometimes even a sweater and scarf. I told you that I feared you’d strangle yourself at night.
    We fought over the lights too. I liked the apartment bright so I could see what I was eating for dinner, see whatever I was trying to read on the couch. You’d come into the living room and grimace, like the brightness was killing you. You’d turn off the overhead light and turn on a dim lamp instead.
    If I had an open bag of chips somewhere, you’d eat them all or throw them out and then yell at me for not hiding them better.
    I could not fold bedsheets correctly, according to you.
    I complained about your organic peanut butter.
    The kids started in on each other too—Maxine getting upset at Vince for being in the bathroom too long. Vince saying she hogged the TV .
    These small battles seemed silly and innocuous at first, but they eventually bugged me more and more, like small buzzing flies in front of my face.
    …
    At a certain point in our third year, you were getting bored and didn’t know what to do with yourself. Your hours at the library were cut and you were working only three days a week. You became depressed and stopped doing the things that you enjoyed doing. I tried to help by giving you things to do on your days off, lists to cross out, recreational “lunchtime” video clips to watch. You slogged through the day without giving a thought to any of it. When I came home at night, work-beaten and starved, I asked you if you’d done any of the things I’d asked you to do. You said no and blew out a sigh that sounded like an inflatable boat sinking in a muddy river.
    I couldn’t even make you laugh. There was a Ziploc bag of Chinese herbs in my coat pocket that I kept forgetting to take 119 out. It had been in there for a week and had somehow gotten wet and become gooey. Whenever I fished my fingers in there to look for something, they came out looking like I had dipped them in shit. But they smelled good, so I didn’t wash my hands right away. I walked around the apartment waiting for you to notice.
    When it was time for bed, we brushed our teeth, side by side, looking in the mirror. We used to exchange sweet glances until things started to feel different. Then you stared straight ahead, watching your mouth turn foamy. I stared so hard at myself I couldn’t see anything.
    …
    It was unseasonably warm outside, and we were having sex as the sun slowly went down. It was the first time we’d done it in almost two weeks. An old country song was on the radio.
    “Do you love me?” I asked.
    You didn’t say anything. The humidity made it hard even to breathe.
    “Say you love me,” I said a minute later.
    You wouldn’t look me in the eyes. Our love making