Lash Out

“Really,” I shouted, “You’re telling me this now?” I was gesturing angrily. I knew I looked violent, and I didn’t care.

She leaned into my rage and yelled right back. “It’s not my fucking fault that you got fired-”

“I didn’t get fired! They eliminated my position!” I emphasized the jargon protecting me from misery.

“Sure, if that makes you feel better!”

“It’s different!”

“Fine! But it’s not my fault, and I’m not obligated to baby you! I’m moving to Oakland, and I’m moving on!”

“Why can’t we just talk about this?”

She screamed in my face, harsh and primal. “We had plenty of time to talk about this. You never wanted to talk about this.”

“You never asked!”

“I did! It was always a bad time!”

“If it was that important, you should’ve made me talk about it!” On “made,” I punched the wall. It was stupid; the brick wall could’ve broken my hand.

The wall broke instead. The whole thing fell in, and I stood dumb in the rising dust, absently brushing powdered brick off my fist.

“Um,” she said. “You want to talk about this?”

“No,” I said. “You go to Oakland. I think I’ll be okay.”