Little Talks: Our First Fight
A series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent free in Scott’s head.
“There’s a proper way to load the dishwasher,” I say as I’m bent down in a catcher’s stance rearranging plates and silverware and wishing that as she leans against the counter she’s paying more attention to the way I’m going about things.
“What?” she says.
“Also, be careful. Because sometimes it leaks. Other times it doesn’t. I don’t know why.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about that?”
“Nothing, I guess. Except be ready to put down a towel or something in the event of a light deluge. We just have to keep an eye on it. Keep our head on a swivel.”
“I’m so sorry my loading approach isn’t up to your standards, but some of us aren’t used to having a dishwasher. We didn’t grow up in the lap of luxury.”
“I mean, it’s not like I have. This is my first dishwasher and I both cherish it and acknowledge the privilege that has enabled me to live in a place that has a mostly functional one. Technically, it’s not even mine. I could never own this place. But I respect the dishwasher and am just starting to adapt to it as a regular part of my life. I only recently stopped using paper plates, something I occasionally did on pure impulse.”
“You still do.”
“Huh?”
“Use paper plates.”
“Sometimes. Just not as often. What’s wrong with that anyway?”
“It’s bad for the environment. And unnecessary when you have a dishwasher.”
“Okay, so, I think dishwashers are bad for the environment as well. I assume they use a lot of water and energy. And it’s not like I’m going to make one tiny dent in making things better or worse for Mother Earth.”
“It takes all of us.”
“I just feel like there’s no way I’m going to make much of an impact on the world.”
“That’s very existential. You never know — you could.”
“I doubt it.”
“I disagree.”
“We’ll agree to disagree,” I say, then, “There. We’re good to go.”
I stand up with a groan and force a smile.
“That doesn’t seem like a perfect use of space,” she says, eyeing up my dishwasher layout.
“There’s a system. Just trust the process.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Don’t tell me how to load my dishwasher!”
“I thought you said it wasn’t actually yours.”
“Semantics!”
“Oh my god. Wait. Is this our first fight?”
I wonder if this question is some sort of trap. Then I get to thinking about what actually constitutes a fight. I contemplate too long, apparently.
“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes,’” she says.
“Well then, I guess we’re having a donnybrook.”
“Why can’t you ever just talk like a normal human being?”
“I do all the time.”
“Like when?”
“On conference calls, usually.”
“Yeah. And you’re never not on those.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You work too much. Way too much. You might be so far beyond burnt out that there’s not even a term for it.”
“Hey, I love my job.”
“Or do you love being busy?”
Shots have been fired. An initially minor disagreement about a household chore that means pretty much nothing is now a verbal sparring match that might encapsulate pretty much everything.
“Okay, so, I don’t want to fight. But it looks like we’re having one. This might sound crazy, but what if we just lean the fuck in? Have an airing of grievances so we can make our way through one big fight having resolved a few things so we’ll be less likely to get combative in the future?”
“I fucking love an airing of grievances.”
“I thought you might. Alright then. Ladies first.”
“Of course I’m going first. You never put the toilet seat down. And I’m used to having it down so when it isn’t sometimes in the middle of the night I’ll just go in there and almost fall in.”
“Well, you always leave it down and I’m used to having it up so when I go in there at 3 a.m. I’m not pissing all over a seat.”
“I guess we’re both just going to have to get used to checking the toilet before we do our business.”
“Look at us! Already resolving problems.”
“This was an excellent idea. Your ups.”
“You’re an absolutely terrible dancer.”
“I never claimed to be a good one. Or one of any kind.”
“You won’t even go out there on the dance floor with me, and you know I love to cut a rug.”
“It’s just not my thing. And it’s not like you’re Fred Fucking Astaire.”
“We could take lessons.”
“I’d sooner die.”
“Well, if you don’t want to dance that’s fine, but are you cool with it if I dance with other people when we’re at weddings and other events without getting upset or jealous?”
“That seems fair as long as there’s no heavy petting.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. So, deal. Okay. Your turn.”
“You’re 35 years old and still don’t use a top sheet.”
“That’s a personal choice. I just enjoy the feel of a duvet. And poking my feet out. They run hot.”
“We both know it’s because you don’t know how to actually make a bed.”
“If a top sheet is important to you, I can learn.”
“Wonderful.”
“But I’m still sleeping on top of it.”
“You do you, man. What else ya got?”
I take a moment. Time stands still. (How long is an actual moment anyway?) I have nothing.
“Nothing comes immediately to mind, actually,” I say.
“Really?”
“Truly.”
“Madly?”
“Deeply.”
“I’m drawing a blank too.”
“I think that’s a good thing. We have very few qualms with one another.”
“But I do feel like this is going to be one of those scenarios where once we stop I’m going to think of a bunch of other things I might want to circle back on.”
“Fair. Same time next week? That was kinda cathartic.”
“Sounds good. Oh, one more thing: Your kimono is not that sexy.”
“I refuse to compromise on anything kimono related.”
“Fine,” she says as she’s rummaging through my below-sink cabinet. “But also, you’re out of dishwasher pods.”
