The Bones

He would win for the moment, forcing her to wait for her victory. But her victory would always come; it seemed. Eventually she viewed him with silliness and contempt when he stormed. She, knowing she would win when, later, he would acknowledge his own foolishness. So she waited out his storm, his demand of victory in the moment, knowing she would win the war, or so she thought. He would always apologize, relinquish. But she, she would never apologize, for didn’t he always admit that he was wrong. So although she thought she won, it was she that was made to suffer the most. She suffered his demand for victory in the moment. But also she suffered all the while that she awaited his submission. They were young and everything was fresh.

At the beginning she relished waiting for him. Him squirming, him forcing himself to come to terms with his irrational demands for the moment; she watching him struggle to address her; she, in control, empowered over him, in charge of determining where and when she would accept his admission of defeat. It was a common pattern that worked well. She could accept this. Besides, he had such energy, such vigor; those were exiting times. As time wore on, however, this expanse of time (for it was certainly longer than the moment of submission he demanded of her) wore on her. She suffered because he continued to demand that moment despite his eventual apologies and self-acknowledged irrationalities (or so he called them). She suffered because he continued to demand that moment. Therefore she was forced to always accept his apology. It was expected of her; it was necessary of her; she bore the weight of upholding the relationship. Eventually she no longer relished the expanse of time in which he nervously skittered about, timidly looked for her attention, as if naïve to the common pattern – as if he was still unsure that she would take him back, say all was forgiven, all was well. She grew impatient with his irrational (her description) anxiety. Whey was he so unsure? So, she began to suspect him. He knew something she did not. It must be! All the while, after his victorious moments, while she sat waiting with pride and scorn and other sinful emotions, he had been questioning his own mind and motivations. While she sat idly, he conducted his energies. She began to see this. Was this why he was so unsure of her forgiveness; was this his cause for his fresh-seeming guilt and obvious relief when she forgave him. Before she had found it so very charming, even adorable. But, was there more to forgive him than she had thought?

They grew older together, and she began to question this further. Now she had had her eyes on him with more purpose. She suspected him and she no longer sat idly waiting. She began to suspect that the relief that washed over him, when she forgave him his triumph of the moment, was not for her forgiveness but more for something else. She was missing something. She had not caught on. It was something about that moment. He always took it And didn’t he admit that he was wrong to take it. Didn’t he! But he took it and took it and took it. And she forgave him for it every time. So then she saw. It wasn’t that moment that mattered. He had won every moment. He won when he stormed - she submitted; he won when he apologized - she accepted. He won even when she thought she was winning. In those expanses of time when she had waited for him, when she thought she was getting her revenge, equaling things out in the relationship, here too, in fact, he won. For in these moments she was waiting for him, thinking of him, and he was thinking of himself too. All of this thought glorified him, and she was forced to sustain the relationship on her own. And while she had relished, waiting for him to apologize, she had become more dependent on him, for what if he never sought her out for forgiveness? She would be left in defeat, she realized.

She knew that it would be the end of the relationship if she took a stand against him. He would never give up any moment. And that, in fact, was the common pattern. She was too old now anyway. Now, in knowledge of the truth, she would just have to continue the pattern. But she no longer had the energy to conceal her suspicions of him. So, at the end, they both knew everything. He knew that she had found him out, but he also knew she wasn’t going to do anything about it. Years later, as she prepared to die, murmurs of thought moved into her mind. She had no more energy to hide from them. She had always known they whispered. She had always known.