I never did mind the little things, which is why I don’t understand why my boyfriend is so angry with me. He’s pacing around our apartment throwing glasses, plates, punching walls. He says I don’t appreciate what he does for me—weekend getaways to small towns with very little to see but a nice hotel, dinner at expensive restaurants that serve half-sized entrées, random gifts of jewelry I’ve never worn. I don’t remember asking for these things.
“I just want to make you happy!” he screams.
“What is happy?”
He punches the wall again. It is an uncomfortable substitute for my face. He plants his teeth into his bottom lip, stares at me with slanted eyes.
“You want a jerk? An asshole? That’s what you’re used to, right?”
When have I ever said that, I wonder. My ex-boyfriend was sweet. He took me to Barnes and Noble, let me pick one book, and read the first chapter to me while we sipped on lattes in the coffee shop. Was I happy then or did I just enjoy being with him? Loved his smell, his touch, how the words dripped from his lips like honey as he read?
“You’ve been abused so much, you can’t even see when someone actually cares.”
“Those holes came from your fists,” I say, pointing at the walls.
He doesn’t answer, continues pacing. I watch his feet as he stomps across the carpet. I don’t want to look at his face—the puffed out cheeks, the flared nostrils, brows so furrowed, his eyes are practically closed. What have I done to make him so angry? Why can’t he see the girl he wants to pamper isn’t me?
He’s standing by the door now. “Don’t ask me for nothing else.” He leaves, slams the door behind me.
I never wanted
silver, gold; just a poem blooming
on a tree in Spring.
This is part of Haibun Thinking — A weekly challenge asking you to write a Haibun, a Japanese literary form that combines a narrative (prose) and a short poem or haiku at the end.