I Hate You

It doesn’t matter who said it first, though I know it was me. Once it was said, it echoed, like the first I love you. Echoed your tone of voice when you asked me to pass the sugar. In the inviolable space between us while we slept. I wanted to stop thinking it, and for a time we could live normally, having our coffee, walking the dog, but after more than two drinks, one of us would say something vicious.

How long did it last? I have no idea. Like steam escaping through a too-small duct, our mouths, pressurized by the insufficiency of words. From then on, it wasn’t safe for us to have two consecutive drinks together, or to disagree over a small thing. All that drama. Where did it come from? What was the point?
I would have dumped me, too. You can’t live with someone who thinks they hate you.