“I’m not asking you to take everything that you own, just maybe take 2 large suitcases and your computer and your drives and your shoes and…”

“All right, all right. Stop.”

“Ok. Ok.”

I had both of my palms up facing him in the universal body language for ‘no offense, calm down.’

I’ve swung to other end of the spectrum.

Now I can’t get him out of the house fast enough.

The dance continued until the week before Christmas when my mother had asked for the 10^th time whether or not we were coming or not and could we bring our own food, since we don’t eat turkey and she has no idea what to make for us and my brother brought a gallon of soy eggnog for us and we had better be coming because Daddy’s not going to drink it.

So thoughtful, my brother.

By that time, a suitcase had materialized, but was still empty and sitting ominously in the small hallway outside the bedroom.

“Look. I need to know exactly when your brother’s coming to get you. Because I have work and then I’m going to mom’s.”

“You’re taking the car?”

No. I’m walking to Philly you idiot.

“Yes. I’m taking the car.”

“I’ll talk to him. I think he can get me on Friday.”

Finally.

“Ok.”

Friday comes and I end up working really late on location. Like the server-crashed-and-I-had-to-rebuild-2-hours-of-graphics-and-the-client-still-had-late-changes-then-re-render-and-post-late.

I had sent him a text earlier asking him what time his brother was coming and he had said about 7.

He was home when I got there.

Apparently, I should have specified the day, when I sent that text.

“Hey.”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at me, obviously pissed.

“You weren’t home.”

“What does where I am have to do with him picking you up?”

“You know what—?”

I wave my hand around not even looking at him.

“I don’t want to hear it. Tomorrow I’m going to my mom’s and I don’t really care what you do, or how you do it, but you’d best not be here when I get back.”

“He’s coming for me in the morning, I swear.” He says quietly.

Now he looks sad, like he’s trying to appeal to my softer side.

Unbeknownst to him, I’d beaten my softer side into submission weeks ago.

In fact she’s somewhere in the recesses of my psyche as we speak, in the infirmary, still recovering from massive head trauma and excessive internal bleeding.

Her heart stopped twice.

I have perfected hiding these “soft” emotions from my husband since he began using them against me.

I wipe my face clean of any and all emotion, level my gaze at him in my fiercest unblinking stare and dare him to protest.

“Forget it.”

If Agent Coulson were real, he’d hire me.

I’m just that good.

I push past him and go to the bedroom to change clothes, wipe off my makeup and prepare for a long night on the computer in my office waiting until he’s asleep, further nullifying anymore interaction.

I completely blame my watery eyes on the fact that I’ve been staring at computer monitors all day.