The Brooding Spoon
It’ll probably happen like this: I’ll schlep myself up the stairs to our apartment, slightly weary from the day and work but it won’t be so bad. I’ll take off my cocoon of work clothes and I’ll hear him clomp up the stairs and struggle with the lock. He might say hi, but then he’ll ask me what’s for dinner, even though I’ll have barely put my purse down, so I’ll say I dunno, whatcha making? And he’ll say okay okay jesus christ I was just asking. And he’ll brood in his favorite corner briefly and I’ll say something not worth repeating like Brenda was censured at work again and he’ll say what and when a stream of air comes out of my mouth like a popped tire he again will say what; of course I’ll say nothing, not that I won’t talk, I’ll literally say nothing, as if I can’t remember what I wanted to say and he’ll look at me like I’m prey and ask if this is about the fucking spoons again, how it meant I didn’t love him—how many times did he need to explain that thing with the spoons; and I’ll deny it but he won’t believe it; I’ll get annoyed at being misunderstood, misperceived, since it compounds the loneliness I’ve been feeling around him lately when we find ourselves communicating from separate realities; I should have known this was coming: every time I compliment our relationship we end up fighting. You know how you’ll hear a guy say that a woman is pretty but not hot or something? Well, he’s handsome but not cute. So when he starts to pout he looks like a mopey statue, and I can’t feel bad because I can’t pity him because he doesn’t look pitiable, he looks pathetic. He’ll then talk about how he actively employs the method of positive visualization. Employ he’ll say. Not use, employ. So, I’ll ignore that and I’ll have this urge to just stop the argument, stop everything, say I was wrong, about what I won’t remember, and I’ll have an impulse to tell him I love him. But he’ll sulk and sulk and slouch in the corner and I’ll have to avoid his eyes. Instead of saying anything he’ll give me what he once called a bitchslap with the eyes. That’s exactly what he does when we argue, but he does it with his entire face. He’ll be making those bitchslap eyes at me, and you don’t tell a man with bitchslap eyes that you love him, so instead I’ll remind him about how the day before he texted me during what was a day off and said I’m having a wonderful day, can you not come home for a bit longer? He said this. I was expected to not be mad about this. And I won’t be able to stop myself from saying it. I’ll walk right into it. He’ll say I didn’t give him enough time. And I know I’ll walk right into it. Give you enough time? It’s not a fucking test. Which will be a huge mistake because it will allow him to feel righteous and clever when he says Well, apparently it is! And I won’t be worried he’ll hit me or anything, he’ll just sort of threateningly take off his engagement ring, because he always does. And it’s not like much had changed since we engaged, but since it happened there’s been one pseudo-significant thing. That promise of marriage added a thin porous layer, one that forced me to put up with just a liiiiittle bit more. A snarkier than usual comment, chores delayed more than usual, maybe being called a bitch wouldn’t end the relationship the way it would have when we were dating. I had to be careful to not take advantage of these things, to not push boundaries simply because it feels good to do so in the moment, to resist the urge to get away with it. I’ve done immense work in this area, but it doesn’t seem like he resists at all. So okay, so okay, I’ll bring up how he was accused of fucking a bellhop in an elevator last month. And I know nothing happened because I bribed the security guard to see the footage, so I know there was never any fornicatory situation with the bellhop. But then he’ll fucking say, I know it, he’ll say that this isn’t about a bellhop, or his brooding (brooding he’ll say, as if he were goddamn batman), it’s about the fuCKiNG SPOONS, AGAIN IT’S ABOUT THE FUCKING SPOONS. So okay the thing with the spoons, the thing with the spoons is I was scooping ice cream for us for a movie, and he thought he had such a cute lovey dovey question to ask, so he said Babe, if there were only two spoons left in the drawer, one of the good spoons and one of the shitty spoons, which spoon would you give me? And you know what, he should have known better, because I’m an honest person, I told him yeah, I’d give him the shitty spoon after I did scoop his fucking ice cream. If he wants the good spoon, he should scoop himself. And we’ll rehash this entire spoon thing for the ten-thousandth time and I’ll have developed a headache and lost it and gained a migraine during yet another neverending argument and we’ll be hours in and I’ll be at the point I can’t do it anymore, when my body will feel wrung out and strained and I’ll just want it to be over, at this point I’ll want to just say, I love you, because it’s true, and the conversation is just going to keep following itself like a mobius strip, and I know I’m not going to end things, but he’ll be wearing those bitchslap eyes still, and you don’t tell a man with bitchslap eyes that you love him.
Hunter A. Allund received an MFA in fiction from Brown University. Their short story collection, Glass Moons, was a finalist for the Iron Horse Literary Review Book Prize and their poetry is forthcoming in The New Orleans Review, Interim, and the Winter Anthology. Hunter currently writes, paints, and lives in Providence RI with an imaginary greyhound named Gauss.
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