Men

I'm simmering. Pissed over something small and inane and pointless, but pissed regardless. In the cool air outside, his friend tries to talk it out with me, explain that he means well, though I've lost the mood to listen.

But when we get back to the house, his eyes are red. Tugging at my heart strings as he takes my hand, pleads for me to stay. Three missed calls in the fifteen minutes I was gone. I can feel the relief and anxiety in every word from his lips.

We say things we know we'll regret to each other then. Him a silent list of things I've done wrong—things he's had to put up with—me saying I'll be gone tomorrow. Even when all I want to do is to hold him and make his tears go away.

The space between us feels like a chasm. Every time he looks at me, I wish I could be somebody else. Someone with the strength to cross those inches of empty air between us. Someone with the heart to just say sorry and kiss him beneath his bloodshot eyes.

But we fall asleep like this, still pissed, still angry, still needing each other.