The anger snaps within her -blinding reason, blurring vision- and it takes the crash of breaking glass for her to even realize she’s thrown the plate across the room.
A needling voice, deep inside the caverns of her mind, a voice that sounds familiarly like her mother tisks: that is no way to keep a man.
The words make her teeth clench, curl her fist so nails dig into her palm.
“Look, I’m sorry –“ His words are cut off by the thrumming of blood in her ears. She turns to the sink so he won’t see the tears that are soon to follow, that always follow, any burst of emotion.
“I shouldn’t have thrown the plate.” She forces the words out. They are the right words, the respectful words, but they turn her stomach like sour grapes.
“I shouldn’t have expected you to clean it…” He replies, cautiously, as if unsure of his words. She feels his hand on her shoulder now, trying to sooth her; instead it clamps down like the walls of a cage.
“I overreacted.” She tells the sponge in her hands.
Now he’ll laugh it off and she will too. It will end like every argument between them does: her trying to make it better and him confused about what the problem even was.