Friday evening was a beautiful, balmy evening. When I stepped out the door of the building, a wash of warm air ran over me and, I don't know, the pixies got into my bloodstream or something. Two colleagues and I plonked ourselves down at an outdoor table and, well, got plonked. We gossiped, we drank, we laughed.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.