Why I Don't Fight With My Girlfriend

Why I Don't Fight With My Girlfriend


Talking, about us - SERIOUS - she's deflecting, skillfully retreating in an orderly fashion, giving nothing away. Suddenly, she strikes! A brilliant riposte, and she's broken my sequence. I'm still on the attack, but my feet are now moving in a direction I never intended, as is the conversation. Problems with her dad. Not exactly the subject I’m looking to deal with at the moment, but I can see how it could be part of the overall issue affecting her ability to connect lately. Of course, what I can't see is that it's a soft sell; a deliberately exposed weakness in her defense that she wants me to take, but is talented enough to deliver with such deftness that I am already decided on taking it before I’ve really understood what it was.

We move on to phase two of the match, her daddy issues. This bout is decidedly shorter. I still am on offense, but the movement has become easier; the frantic search for an opening is gone now that I have fallen into the trap she set for me. I am being handled. Her moves are easier as well, the two of us working together now instead of at odds. We move back and forth, her allowing me enough space to attack freely, playing weak, and manipulating me into fooling myself. Knowing that I am still "in control", I know that I can bring this conversation back to where I want it at any time. And so I don’t. She allows this stage to go on, all the while giving a growing amount of little victories for me to seize upon in my desire to rush into the gap. Finally, growing tired of the subject, she yet again takes the direction of the dance firmly into her control, surrendering on the daddy subject, uttering meaningless words while crying to soften me further, allowing me to "pink" her. Now she is wounded; not serious enough to effect her ability to fight, but more than enough too accomplish her mission. I am defanged; the bastard chivalric tendencies drilled into me from an early age contributing to my lifelong savior complex, and instantly the fight has changed.

Phase three sees the match changed to more resemble a sparring session. Gone now is the passion, the frenetic energy of fighting to save your love. Now, my strokes are instructional; I'm trying to help her see the way. She begins to respond more, words coming out more freely, slowly gathering strength. There's more back and forth now. Gone is everything but a hint of the control I had over this conversation. I still lead, but she follows me down a path she has laid out. She shows a couple sudden, marked improvements, and I am placated. Although they were surely only surface changes, ones offered up with almost no cost to her, they were enough to make me feel like further fighting was unnecessary. Once again, demonstrating the amazing agility and control she possesses, she flicks a deceptively slow, almost lazy strike out. A laughter-laced aside, tinged with naughtiness. The strike connects, my steel is ripped from my hand, and the fight is over.

But she is not done with me. As I am it would be too easy for me to simply walk over and pick up my steel again, restart the fight. No, before she is done, she must divest me of my armor: my logic and my conviction that the course I have started down is a necessary one. Still placated by my small victories (dear to me but cheaply bought for her), she walks around me in slow circles. Her voice is warm and light now, flitting here and there. More meaningless subjects: work, friends, family. Her blade is even lighter, quick breaths of air from her laughter marking stroke after stroke cutting through my bindings, slicing through my armor itself. Pieces of it rain down around me. I am convinced. This time things have changed. Things are going to be better.

Her last move I should have expected. After all, she's been training me with it for about a year. When she's done with talking, she develops sudden onset narcolepsy. Can't stay awake through the length of a question. She apologized profusely, of course. She always does. And I take pity on her, of course. I always do. Having successfully stripped me of my weapon, my armor, and my will to fight, she offers up her weapon, surrendering, submitting. One last small, meaningless, placating victory to me to feel warm about. So well sold am I the absurdity of my "victory" is lost on me, and I graciously accept it. We say our "goodnight"s, our "I love you"s, and all is right with the world.

We hang up.

And then I get it.

Can't fault it technically. Parts of it are more interesting than others. This reader can't help but think he'd have enjoyed it more if he had more context or cared about either the narrator or his girlfriend. But part of the construct is avoiding specifics, such as names or places or definite states of affairs.

So it wasn't emotionally gripping, one could say. But it was at parts interesting and ponderous, the ending being somewhat predictable of course. Nonetheless it suggests that you are a capable writer. Post more. Show us what you got.







J