I think she’s trying to blow me up.
It’s not the fact she dislikes people knitting in public (she finds it annoying). It’s that when I challenge her on why, she reels back, like curds in water. That drives me nuts. I mean, knitting. Who’s it hurting? I guess there’s an attitude to perling while waiting for the bus. Those damn carefree click-clacking needles. I thought it was harmless, like doodling. But doodlers annoy her too (mindless, she says).
She says my dislikes are just as arbitrary. Noisy eating, for example.
I don’t think they’re arbitrary. All my annoyances are based on obvious injustices from childhood. Helpless at the family table.
(Ok, stop. Think. If mine are all based on…).
No, I make a list of why SHE should apologise. I’ve written it out on the back of a beer label that came off in one. It’s waxy, and the ink doesn’t take. But I can make out the words:
1. It’s her turn.
2. How many times have I apologised when I didn’t think I was wrong?
3. What she withholds from me is just as corrosive as what I withhold from her.
The old guy at the bar asks what I’m doing. I don’t answer. (Noisy fucking drinker slurping beer.)
But I guess how hurt she must have been once to be so hardened now. Just the crust of a scab.
I see what I’m doing. Helpless. I look at my list. I blow up