Boiling By Laurel Galford

Mike Maguire CC



Boiling


The water boils as you lean over your computer trying to help her with some test as part of a job interview. She asked if you could help, you said you could try though you did not guarantee that you were an expert in the subject matter. 
 
The test is timed so as you’re trying to make dinner like she asked you to do, trying to help think through the question, like she asked you to do, you are not moving or thinking fast enough and the time ticks down at you accusingly. Convinced she won’t get it right because your help is not helping, she slams your computer shut and bolts up the stairs. 
 
You settle in the storm of her after, breathing deeply, trying to not let tears fall into the ravioli that you are trying to salvage. She asked you to help, you think, you didn’t say you would get it right. 
 
Upstairs she runs the bath to wash her dog, the dog you have also come to love but ultimately is not your dog and not yours together. Not really, unless in the cold early morning she begs you take out “your son” so she can sleep longer. Sometimes you do, sometimes you do not and she will joke about your “neglect” later in the day when you don’t. She’s always joking.
 
You think you should go upstairs and try to gauge how angry she is, but first check your laptop to make sure it’s not cracked. It’s not and you are relieved. What would you have done if it was?
 
You warily retrace her path prepared to argue and apologize; you feel guilty you weren’t smart enough to help her pass the test. A test she really should be doing herself anyways. And feel annoyed at her for getting angry with you and taking it out on your things. But she is upset right now, your feelings will have to wait. You are always waiting.
 
You clear your throat, try to tell her you’re sorry you couldn’t help and you know she’s under a lot of pressure but you wish she hadn’t slammed your computer down. She turns to you busy with the dog and says she can’t hear you over the water. You retreat downstairs. You are glad her parents aren’t home. 
 
You carefully spoon ravioli into bowls for you both, though you have no appetite left. Heat up sauce from the jar, place the bowls with silverware for you both and wait for her to come downstairs. You don’t realize you are holding your breath. 
 
She comes back down and apologizes for slamming your computer, but you weren’t really helping me, you made me more stressed. You apologize, say you tried, look down at your dinner. Stir your simmering frustration with her into the sauce. 
 
Sometimes you feel like you are apologizing for even existing. 
 
She takes a bite, it’s good thanks but you let it boil too long, see how it’s falling apart? She smirks as she shows you how easily the ravioli rips open. She loves correcting you in the kitchen.
 
You want to smash something. 
 
Well I was a little distracted and it’s still edible. 
 
Yes but it’s not supposed to come apart, next time don’t leave it in so long. 
 
You shrug, there isn’t a point in continuing the conversation. You never win anyways.

You try to tell her you don’t want to come to her hockey game anymore, you’re not upset just tired and want to clean up, she can go without you. She says no come on babe please come, it’ll be fun, look I’m sorry, come with me and we’ll get something to eat after. 
 
You’re not hungry and you don’t feel like hanging out with her after her outburst, but you are an hour from home and said you would stay the night. What are you going to do? Go home early and make up an excuse to your parents? You feel pathetic. Trapped. You go with her. 
 
At the game you get a beer while you watch her play, sip it slowly as you nurse away your feelings. You sit alone on the bleachers as it’s a small recreational league and while you don’t mind hockey, you’re bored as hell. An hour ticks by painfully. 
 
You think about ending it all right then and there. You wish you had your car so you could leave. But she seems happier now that she’s shoving other girls on the ice. You hope she’s in a better mood after. You’re not sure you are. 
 
Back in the car she says she wants to get chicken wings because dinner wasn’t enough for her. You bite back both an apology and a retort at her veiled criticism. You say okay but you’re not hungry. She rolls her eyes and says come on don’t be like that, eat with me, I said I was sorry about your computer but you kinda fucked up dinner. You don’t need to eat, you say, ignoring the knots in your stomach, a mixture of hunger and irritation. 
 
You want to be out of this car. 
 
She forces you to choose what flavor of sauce for the wings you want, even though you don’t want to eat, don’t even want to be there with her. 
 
You want to disappear. 
 
She is trying to make things better, you think. You’re being difficult. Smile, eat, get over it. 
 
The rest of the evening you are quiet. You’re not really upset anymore but you have nothing to say. You have nothing left to give. 
 
Lights off in bed, you lay together as the tv plays an episode of The Office quietly. You want to go to sleep and pretend this night didn’t happen. The emotional whiplash is exhausting.
 
You let her hold you and kiss you. You don’t remember if you even like it anymore, but this feels better than fighting or talking or ignoring everything. 
 
You don’t shrug her off when she climbs on top of you, you know if you do she is sure to be annoyed then. Sure to accuse you of holding onto the fight even if you deny it. You let her rouse something like desire in you, pretend it’s like the beginning again, when things were hot, heavy, and simple. 
 
You let yourself enjoy something of this awful evening, even if it feels like her desire to touch you comes from a desire to get herself off.
 
You whisper all the right things, act in the right ways, try to get something out of this, out of her. 
 
You tell yourself next time you will stay mad, you will yell, get loud. You will be the one to slam things. 
 
There is always a next time.


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Laurel Galford (she/her) is a queer social worker, rock climber, and recent California transplant. Her work has been featured in Perfumed Pages and Tiny Wren Lit online magazines.