End on a High Note
Fucking sensor.
I stood there, so close to entering my house, waiting for that goddamn garage door to close. It would touch the ground, and then suddenly start rising again, waiting for my press of a button to intercept it.
There's nothing in your way. Stop going back up. Stop. Please. There is no reason for you to go back up. There is nothing there.
_ _ Apparently, the door thought differently. I opened the door to the basement and tossed my coat in so I could trudge over the garage door and at least pretend to investigate. Mark called something from upstairs, but I was already agitated enough without having to put up with him. Looking down at the little sensor, my suspicions were confirmed. Nothing in the way. Wild. I had to pull the door down manually. I'd probably just get some guy to come fix it, like I do every winter. It must have something to do with the cold.
I entered the house, finally, and stepped on my coat. Looking down, I noticed that not only had my coat just been covered in a new layer of gray snow and gravel, but my pants seemed to be suffering from a similar malady. I can never get the right pants; I'm very strangely proportioned. I managed to find an inseam that was too long, apparently, and had been dragging the cuffs through the snow on the way to the parking lot. On the bright side, I might be able to go buy some new pants that actually fit me.
I climbed the stairs painstakingly slow. I could feel this vein pulsing in my upper temple with every single step. This headache was killing me ever since I got off work. I'm not one of those people that claim they have migraines; my mother--bless her heart--always used to get real migraines, not just "bad headaches," and I knew how devastating they could be. That being said, my experience walking up those stairs wasn't exactly a pleasant alternative. When I got to the top of the stairs, Mark called out again. "I said hey honey?"
"Hey babe." I would've given him a kiss or something, but I didn't want to venture into the kitchen and take up too much space while he was cooking. God. If there's one thing that fox can do, it's cook. Faintly, I could smell something, but it was trapped in the oven. I dropped myself into my chair and wrestled my shoes off before reclining and relieving my back of all the day's pressure. It would've been relaxing, if not for my throbbing brain. He called once again from the kitchen.
"Rough day?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes." I seethed. Sometimes I mumble, but Christ, listen up. The kitchen, with a dining table, and living room were attached, so the smell became overwhelming as soon as he cracked the oven open. I grimaced as I looked in his direction. Apprehensively, I asked, "baby, what is that?" He slid some casserole out of the oven and turned towards me. His ears drooped when he saw how disappointed I looked.
"I know you don't like pork, but I saw this recipe and I thought maybe you'd like it if I prepared it differently..." He trailed off; I was groaning. Quite audibly in fact. "Babe I'm--"
"No, it's fine." It's never fine. "I'm just fuckin' hungry. It's fine. I like when you cook anyways." He may have responded, but he had lost my attention by then. He's knows how much I hate pork I can't stand it. And today of all days.
While I washed my plate, he asked me how my day was. "Too long, babe." My head kept pounding, and he kept talking.
"Why don't you tell me what's up?
"Just a lot of stupid people I have to put up with." That was only slightly directed at him, but he still picked up on the connotation. He didn't say anything for a while, so once my plate was clean enough, I turned back to find him staring at his paws, both of them held together on the table.
"Why can't you just tell--"
"My fucking head hurts, okay honey?" Honey. I had said it so condescendingly; this was no secret. Mark kept his head still, but turned his eyes up at me.
"I'm going to bed. I'm tired."
"Fine." He made his way to our bedroom. I heard the shower start. I felt kind of bad, but was it really that difficult for him to leave me alone? I love him, but Jesus, sometimes it's too much.
I finished the dishes and returned to the recliner, turning on some television show. I kept the volume down low, due to the slightly less incessant pain in my skull, but still wanted to hear something. I didn't want to be left alone to my thoughts. Despite this, my mind insisted on replaying the events of the day: Deb spilling her drink on my lunch_and the headache that followed, snow all over my pants and coat, that _casserole for dinner. Then I got to Mark. Obviously, I knew nothing was his fault, I just needed some kind of release. But that poor fox didn't deserve it. He was the sweetest fucking fox in the whole goddamn world, and he chose me for some reason. Hell, I probably would have been excited to try something new he cooked on any other day. The more I sat there, the more I thought about it, and the worse I felt.
He was sitting in bed, not yet asleep, and had his muzzle buried in some too-thick book. I lingered upon entering the bedroom, hoping for him to look up, but he was fed up with me already. I wandered to the bathroom and took a sad little shower. When I ventured back out, the lights were already off, and Mark was lying on his side, as far as far away as he could get from my side of the bed without falling off. I slipped in and faced his back, hoping I could telepathically make him turn around and look at me.
I called out. "I'm sorry." He turned.
"I know." I sniffled. "Oh, quit crying you fucking pup."
"I'm not crying." My voice wavered just a bit. Technically, I wasn't crying yet, but dear God was I about to start bawling.
"Ah c'mere." He shimmied his way towards me and hugged me, digging his nose into my shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I just--"
"Shut up. Just hold me. Hold me like you did by the lake on Naboo."
I bit my cheek to stop myself from granting his terrible joke a laugh, but I still giggled a bit. "I hate you." I smiled at the warmth under my chin.
"I hate you too."