Fine. I was totally fine. Which is more than I can say for that menu at the place you picked — half the dishes translated like a fever dream. "Explosion of the sea inside a bread." I still think about it when I'm not thinking about how my head feels like someone parked on it.
Anyway. You remember what time we actually left? Because my last clear memory is you arguing with someone about a coat.
The coat thing was trivial. I told you not to wear it. You never listen. We left when the waiter stopped pretending to smile. Maybe midnight, maybe later. I can't be bothered to check my phone. Too much light. Let's just say the city was loud and you were louder. Focus on the headache, not the time.
The city was loud and I was louder, sure, blame the messenger. I don't even remember picking a fight about the coat, I remember you laughing at something on your phone and not showing me. That's the part sitting weird with me, honestly. Not the headache.
Who were you texting.
Nobody. Just a notification. You always assume the worst. I was looking at a recipe, or maybe a meme, who cares? You were too busy making a scene about the bread. Stop digging. It's nothing. We're here now, fine. The headache will pass. Don't overthink it.
"Making a scene about the bread" — see, that I do remember, and it wasn't a scene, I was right, it was cold. Fine, drop the phone thing.
But you keep saying "we're here now" like there's a version of last night we're skipping past on purpose. I woke up with a bruise on my arm I can't place and my shoes by the door, not on my feet. That's not nothing, Kit.
Shoes off is standard. Bruises? You fall asleep standing up sometimes. Don't make it a mystery. I was just tired, okay? We walked home. That's all. The rest is just... static. Stop picking at it. It doesn't help.
"Static." Funny word for it. You're usually not this bad with details, you're the one who remembers what everyone ordered three weeks later. So either it really was nothing, or you're doing me the same favor I might be doing you — leaving out the part that doesn't sound good out loud.
Which one is it, Kit.
I'm not protecting you, I'm bored. You want a villain to blame for a bruise? Fine, maybe I shoved you. Maybe we were arguing about the coat. The details are blurry because I was annoyed, not because some grand secret exists. Drop the detective act. It's exhausting.
"Maybe I shoved you" is a hell of a thing to say bored. That's not an answer, that's a shrug wearing a coat.
I'm not doing a detective act, I'm just not gonna pretend a bruise materialized out of static. Fine — we were arguing. About what, though, because it wasn't the coat, not really, you don't grab someone over a coat.
It was about the job offer. You wanted to take it, I said it's a trap. You called me jealous. I grabbed you to stop you from walking out. It was messy. That's the whole story. No crime scene, just a bad argument. Why does it have to be a mystery?
A job offer. That's — okay, that's new, you didn't say that five minutes ago. And I don't remember any offer, Kit, I haven't applied anywhere since spring.
So either that's the real thing you just handed me because I pushed hard enough, or you're building the story as you go and I'm supposed to catch it and say thank you. Which is it.
I'm not building it. You're the one foggy. Maybe it wasn't an offer, maybe it was just talk. You always twist things. It was about money, or the rent, or something stupid. I said stop, you wouldn't listen. The grab happened. The bruise is real. The rest is just noise. Move on.
"The grab happened, the bruise is real" — fine, we agree on that much, that's more than we had ten minutes ago. I'm not gonna keep dragging you through it word by word, I get that you're tired too.
But don't hand me three different versions and call it noise, Kit. Pick one and I'll believe it. I just don't think it was rent.
It was the invitation. You wouldn't go. I said you're a coward. You turned away, I grabbed your arm. That's it. Not the coat, not the job, just the invitation. You're still too sensitive to admit I was right. Stop asking for more.
An invitation to what, though. You keep saying it like it's obvious and it's not, Kit, not to me, not this morning. You've given me a coat, a job, rent, and now an invitation, and called me the unreliable one the whole time.
I'm not asking for more. I'm asking you to land on something and stay there.
The gallery opening. That's it. You refused to sign the guest book. You walked out. I pulled you back. The invitation was just for that night. Stop looking for a pattern in my mistakes. It was just a stupid party.
A guest book. Right. So the story where you shoved me over a fight is also somehow anchored to whether I signed a guest book at a party neither of us apparently wanted to be at.
I'm not looking for a pattern in your mistakes, Kit, I'm looking for one true thing. You've given me five now. Just tell me the one that actually happened, even if it's bad.
Fine. The gallery. You said you wouldn't go. I got mad. I pushed you against the wall to make you listen. You hit the doorframe. That's the bruise. The rest is just the noise of us being drunk and mean. It's over. Don't make it a trial.
That one didn't come out rehearsed. The others did.
I'm not putting you on trial, Kit. I just needed one thing to actually match the mark on my arm instead of floating around it. Okay. The doorframe. I believe that part.
I still don't know why I said I wouldn't go, though. That's the piece that's missing for me.
You said the artist hated you. Some old thing you read. You wouldn't stand there while they smiled. That's all. You're too honest, that's the problem. You walk out before they can pretend to like you. Now we're even.