I. Sorry Seems to Be Hardest Word

No one wanted to say that one word.
We said a lot of words to each other.
There was a lot of four letter word conjugation—so much one would assume Samuel Jackson would knock on the door and tell us to calm down.

Two vases were thrown. One hit the wall and the other hit me in face.
The one that struck the wall was made of metal.
The one for my head was ceramic or some form of stone.

Yes, it hurt like hell and yes, I fell to the floor.
I wasn’t knocked out so I could still hear his tirade as he stomped across the room to the apartment door. So much shouting and yelling, even after the door slammed and he was gone.

I felt at my face: nose, still there; eyes, present. Large gash in my forehead, that was new.
Maybe it would build character.

I got up from the floor, blinked a hell of a dozen times and looked at the knocked over chairs; the spilled bottle of wine, and the plates of skewered shrimp now swimming in more Zinfandel than I had used when I prepared it.

It was supposed to be a celebratory dinner.
I had received a promotion at work.
This promotion required me to move to Atlanta.
We had always wanted to visit Atlanta…so…I thought, this would all work: Dinner, tell him the news and maybe a heavy pampering before turning in for the night.

So I left work early.
I bought a few items.
I prepared shrimp with asparagus along with a glass of wine and when he arrived home I gave him a light kiss and sat him at the table, brought the dishes to the table and severed a wonderful dinner.

After a few bites of food, I clapped my hands together and told him the news.
He wasn’t happy, so maybe the pampering for the two of us would be delayed until moods mellowed down some.
He slammed his glass down which caused the stem to break.
I was shocked that he did that, as he knew the glasses were once my grandmother’s.
He berated me for taking the promotion and wanting to make a move two states over.
“It’s just Atlanta. Two states away,” I said.
“That’s a hell of a drive!” He replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m staying here.”

“You want to stay in Little Rock?” I asked with shock.
“Yes!”
I usually thought his tempers were kind of cute, as he never raised his voice or hand at me unless we were role-playing.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“No,” I replied as I tried to assess if the stem could somewhere be repaired.
“Dammit, Jamie!”
“I thought you’d be happy. It’s more money and a better life in a larger city.”
“No, I’m not,” he replied, “and this shrimp takes like shit!”
I took offense at that. He could barely call out for Chinese food, much less make anything more than a peanut butter sandwich.
“I’m going out.”
“Why?” I asked.
And that’s when everything exploded and the vices and vases flew across our two-room apartment.

I stood alone in the kitchen and wondered if I could still consider myself the bigger man for not fighting back.