Her Sighs Cast A Long Shadow

Contributed by Nicolas Papaconstantinou on 08/09/08

She does it all the time. She just did it again, down the phone. You wonder whether she even knows that she does.

She gasps, then giggles, then rolls off you. Grabs a drink of water from the glass on the bedside cabinet, the warm curve of her back presented to you. Turns back, face beaming.
“I love make-up sex!” She says, and kisses your cheek wetly, joking now.

You don’t need to wonder, actually. You know she doesn’t know she does it. You’ve brought it up before, knowing every time that you’re not supposed to, supposed to keep your own counsel. These are the things that we’re supposed to keep down deep inside.
Otherwise, what have we got to fester and blacken, down through the years, until we’re full of the bitter dark of it? Full to the scalp, so that people can see it behind our eyes?
You know you’re supposed to tolerate and forget in the modern relationship – let the other person just be themselves. But you’ve felt the fester with other people before, and seen it in the eyes of people you shouldn’t have, and you’d rather it didn’t happen to you, too.

You smile back, tickle her side so that you can slide an arm under her, and hold her naked body close.
“I love make-up sex too, but I prefer the ‘when we wake-up’ sex.” You say, still smiling, making conversation.
Her expression changes.

“What’s the matter?” You say to the phone, holding it close as the wind pulls at you, struggling to hear as you make your way home to her.
“What do you mean, what’s the matter?” There’s the reply, irritated that you’d ask.
“You sighed?” You say.
“No I didn’t!” She says back, more irritated, now.

You’re at the breakfast table. She’s there, too, staring ahead, chewing her toast. You’re eating the slice that she buttered for you, and you realise that you didn’t say thankyou. When you look up to her with a smile, ready to speak, she’s already smiling back at you, and it seems the words go without saying.

“Listen, it’s not a big deal, but you did.” You say, pushing on against nature. “It’s… are you annoyed?”
“Well, it’s just…” Those three words, that always give you such conflicting feelings – triumph mixed with irritation. There’s relief in the mix, too, because at least now her disappointment is right there, in her voice. “… You said you’d be home early. And you’d get to the shops.”
“Well, yeah, I did. I said I was sorry. Sorry.”
“But you said…”
“Yes, I did, and I already admitted that I fucked up, because I’m stupid.” You immediately regret your tone, but don’t like retreating from it. “It’s started raining. I need to come home now, if that’s okay?”
“Fine…” She sulks, but she stops just shy of sighing, which you’re thankful for. It’s the little puff of air that brings you down. You can handle her being pissed off, because at least it’s out there, where you can deal with it.

A different breakfast, and you’re sitting there, and the words still go without saying. But for some reason, you’re just sitting there, watching that same expression on her face, and you’re desperate to think of something to say.

“What’s wrong?” You say to her, her expression now cold.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She says, and sighs.
“What, but? What did I…?” You fluster, swearing that you feel the tiny sliver of space between your naked bodies cool, right there and then.
She lies there, lips set in an unmistakable shape of defiance.
It occurs to you that somehow, you have said something wrong.
“Is this because I said that I love having sex in the morning?”
She curls her face up, and refuses to say anything.
“Seriously? Are you kidding?”
“You said that you didn’t like having sex with me!”
“Wait, what? No I didn’t! I said that I preferred one kind of sex to another.” You flail around audibly, suddenly at sea. “Why did you think…?”
Silence.

You walk home, rain pouring, and needing the loo. Being soaked is okay, though – it’ll make it easier when you explain the things that her sigh cut you off from saying – about the crisis at work that stopped you getting to her when you said you would.
Because once the mood is out there, you know she can deal with it. When you walk through the door, you’ll be two normal people, who can talk and feel and sort things out.
Which is, after all, one of the few things that two normal people should easily be able to do.

“Jesus!” You say, exasperated. This is the balance you’ve struck – between caution and frustration. Sometimes, like now, when your bodies are still sticky from each other, and yet somehow you’ve still pulled apart, straight-out frustration wins.
“Don’t shout at me!” She says, although you’re fairly certain you didn’t.
“Don’t you know why I prefer every other sort of sex to make-up sex? Do I really need to tell you?” You say. She doesn’t look like she wants to listen, but you tell her anyway.
“It’s because with make-up sex, there has to be a fight, first. And I don’t like fighting with you!”
Her eyes widen – you’re surprised that she’s so surprised.
“Then why do we argue?” She says. You sigh, but you know that it’s a good sigh. Warmer than hers. You know that the two of you are over the hump of this particular bump in the road.
“Because I prefer us arguing to us not really talking properly.” You lean in to her, fingers on her cheek. “I hate when we can’t talk.”

Pretty soon, there’s gasping again, and while it’s almost the same sound, it doesn’t come from the same place. You prefer it.

Her sighs cast a long shadow.
But her gasps… her gasps can brighten a day.