Auraprose — Creative Writing Series
Are We Speaking The Same Language?
A reflection on communicating love in all its forms.
I’m focused on the intense green shade of broccoli, the contrast of colours on my white plate. I’m slicing intently, silently because I want time to pass slowly. I’m waiting for him to say something. The grinding sound of the steel knife’s serrated edge tearing through the slab of meat on his plate brings my focus to his face. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes are locked on his meal. Between the second it takes me to glance at the clock ticking on the wall behind him and then back at him, he has averted his eyes from me back to his meal. At least, I think he does. It was so quick I can’t be sure. I can hear the food being bitten and chewed and churned in his mouth. It sounds hurried which tells me he wants time to pass quickly. He isn’t going to say anything.
I expected to come home to a conversation, I came home to music playing above the noise of the whirring oven fan, the clatter of cooking utensils against stainless steel pans, and the smell of sizzling meat on high heat. I stood at the kitchen door observing him. His movements fluid, coursing between the stove and the sink. Standing at the stove, he quickly shifts his face away from the steam as he lifts the lid off the steam basket, then returns his efforts to the steak being seared on the skillet. The oven beeps, he hastily moves his hands from the skillet to open the oven door to bring out a tray of potatoes. At that moment our eyes met. He turned to me and looked into my eyes searchingly. I thought there was no way he could be waiting for me to say something when he couldn’t even bother replying to my message. I broke our gaze to look at the smoke rising from the skillet next to him. He turned his body away from me, shifting his attention back to the skillet.
As usual, it would be up to me to break the silence. I searched my mind for something witty to say, something light to break the ice.
“So you’re cooking steak and potatoes?” I asked the back of his head.
“Yes,” he replied without turning to face me. His tone was stiff. His tone told me he was angry.
The nerve of him to be angry with me when I broke the silent stand-off between us. I offered the olive branch to which he replied with a cold shoulder.
He sprinkled salt on the potatoes. Potatoes! He would have known that I’m trying to lose weight, had he bothered to listen. I always tell him that hearing is not the same as listening.
“I told you I’m not eating any carbs this week. I can’t eat potatoes on my diet,” I said as I walked away from the kitchen.
I retreated to our bedroom, the noises from the kitchen travelled through the flat. The music suddenly stopped, replaced by the banging of drawers being forcefully shut, and heavy metal spoons being tossed into the sink with no thought to the porcelain or glass tableware waiting to be washed.
I sat on our bed and unlocked my phone to review the text message I sent him earlier that afternoon. I was deliberate in framing my sentences to be clear about my expectations and my intentions, careful not to make pointed statements about his failures and how his behaviour can be disappointing to me. I try to be conscious about how the language I use can break his mood. It becomes easy to overwhelm him with my words. If we’re talking in person and I’m attentive, I can see the moment he retreats from our exchange. When my words are just sounds with no meaning, words that don’t stick. It’s the moment he stops listening and only hears. It’s followed by his silence which is as thick as it is sharp.
I had spent hours deleting and rewriting until I was certain I had a message that did service to my feelings while at the same time being considerate of his.
I feel disrespected…
I feel unheard…
I want to feel like a priority to you…
I want to know that our relationship is valuable…
When I sent the message, I smiled. Feeling relieved that now we can move on from the argument, we can forget the harsh words, we can mute the shouts still echoing from the night before.
But how can we move on if he didn’t even respond?
When I got back to my desk my coffee was cold. I had been in and out of meetings all day, a welcome distraction to take my mind off what happened last night. I hadn’t had the time to think about it until I saw her text message. It was long, thoughtful, and considerate — she really has a way with words. Her way with words reminds me how difficult it is for me to tell her how I feel. My mind always stalls when I look at her face expecting me to have not only an answer, but the answer. A response that is thorough and detailed enough to satisfy her. I don’t have the words to say I’m sorry but I can tell her without words, the best way I know how to.
I checked my calendar and rescheduled the last meetings of the day to the end of the week. I thought if things went well, we would have a late morning at home together. I decided to push tomorrow morning’s meetings to the afternoon. I switched on my out-of-office notifications and headed to the farmer’s market. At the checkout, I remembered her diet. She had said something about not eating carbs, so I turned back to pick up an extra head of broccoli and another bottle of Chablis, her favourite white.
While unpacking the groceries I thought about the points that stood out from her text message. I wanted to tell her that our relationship is valuable. I connected my phone to the speaker and started the playlist we listened to together on our last holiday. It was a week of pure quality time. This music would be a perfect way of reminding her why we choose each other every time and how much our life together means to me. I was in my element, trying to have everything laid out before she got home. I made a mental note to bring the flowers in from the balcony to add to the table when I put our plates out, peonies, her favourite blooms.
I felt eyes on me, I looked up to see her.
I tried to read the expression on her face. I couldn’t tell if it was sadness or remorse. I decided to wait for her to say something first. Everything was so fragile at that moment, I didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing if I misread the pout of her lips or the distance between her eyes and her eyelashes.
Her eyes moved away from me.
The steak!
“So you’re cooking steak and potatoes?” She said. Her tone was flippant, speaking with no thought or care.
That’s it? No hello?
“Yes,” I replied, trying to match her tone.
I don’t understand. Why is she still angry? Does she not see that I’m home? Two hours earlier than usual. Does she not hear the music to remind her of the days we spent driving through the narrow winding roads of the English countryside?
“I told you I’m not eating any carbs this week. I can’t eat potatoes on my diet,” she said.
I turned to see that she had already walked away.
She is unbelievable. She is so caught up in herself. I’ve done all this to be treated like that. Our argument was fraught with resentment and hostility. When I started unloading the groceries and preparing our meal I was sure we were moving on.
But how can we move on if she didn’t even respond?
The ticking clock and the cutlery on plates are the only sounds that fill the silence in the room.
She takes a sip of her wine. “Are you going to say something?” She asks, placing her glass carefully on the table.
“There is nothing to say,” he replies, making an effort to avoid eye contact with her.
“Are you for real? There is so much to say! I want to talk,” she says in a raised voice.
“Then talk! I’m not stopping you from talking,” he replies with his eyes fixed on his wine glass.
“I don’t want to hold a monologue, I want to have a conversation with you,” she says, moving her head closer to his, willing him to look her in the eyes.
He’s afraid he’ll use the wrong words, he’s afraid he’ll disappoint her, he’s afraid she’ll think his words disingenuous and she wouldn’t be wrong. Although the words are true, the delivery makes the message seem false because it isn’t who he is. Expressing himself with words is not authentic to him. He’s confused because she can usually see him and what he wants to say, but somehow she can’t see the effort it takes him to even find these words, which she would describe as empty.
“Just because I respond doesn’t make it a conversation. You say what you want and disregard my input, so what’s the point of me saying anything?” His eyes finally meet hers and for a moment there is silence, but for the ticking of the clock.
“You always take the easy way out! Not responding is the easy way out! You’re emotionally barren!” She yells.
He forcefully pushes his chair back from the table and stands, his meal left half-eaten on his plate. He walks to the kitchen leaving her sitting at the table.
She takes a sip from her glass and waits in the company of the ticking clock. She hears the balcony doors open and pushes her chair back to see him in the kitchen throwing something in the bin. He passes her sitting at the dining table slowly slicing and chewing. The effort they both make to ignore the presence of the other is so burdensome that the weight of it is palpable. He closes the door to the bedroom firmly.
She watches the hands on the clock, after fifteen minutes she gets up and heads to the kitchen with her plate and glass. She opens the bin to see peonies — her favourite bloom. She opens the fridge to pour herself another glass of wine, Chablis — her favourite white. For her, the taste is usually unmistakable but the tension of the evening has not only distorted her taste but it has also distorted her perspective.
He did respond.
She opens the bedroom door and the light streams in. The shadows outline a mound on the bed with hair peeking out, his head resting on his pillow. His back is turned to her, so she waits in silence to see if the mound will move.
His voice breaks the silence, “I’m not emotionally barren, I’m just not good with words.”
“I know. I was angry,” she replies.
“Sometimes I’m not good at translating what you do for me, into what I want you to say to me,” she says, with downcast eyes.
He turns to face her and raises the blanket with one hand while patting her pillow with the other, inviting her to him. She climbs into her side of the bed. Her body contracts and tenses as her skin makes contact, the sheets on that side of the bed are cold and unpleasant. She pushes her body towards him, the middle of the bed has been warmed by his body, it feels cosy and gentle on her skin. As she moves closer to him the warmer she feels, both on the outside and in.
She smiles. He returns her smile with sparkling eyes and an almost quiet chuckle.
She takes her place next to him and wraps him in an embrace, rubbing her palms up and down his back. She moves her head to look him in the eyes. With fingers interlaced and her head resting on his chest, she hears the paced thumping of his heart, telling her to be present in his presence, telling her they are again what they were before they weren’t.
He feels understood, he feels the movement of her body slowly rising and falling in sync with her breath. Her breathing is calm and relaxed, telling him that they have connected, telling him they are again what they were before they weren’t.
This is the first in my series called “auraprose” where I’ll be sharing pieces from my creative writing files. Follow me to be notified on new releases.
