Barbed wire, picture by David

I’m sure you know how it is.

Words are exchanged. The accusation is unfair. But you don’t get the satisfaction of correcting the record until much later. By which time it’s no longer an issue for the other party.

But it is for you. You’ve been smarting all day, developing elaborate, eloquent monologues of injustices past and present, imagining the satisfactory moment of vindication.

So you bring it up again. It’s a dead topic by now, irrelevant. But you want that vindication. And an apology. Which you get. But it still doesn’t feel good.

Forgiveness means that you deliberately give up your “right” to hurt the other party as they hurt you. You know this. You know the right thing to do. But you still don’t want to let it go.

I know that by morning I’ll be over this spikiness. That the issue of today is irrelevant, and a solid nine hours of sleep will cure my bad humour. But for now, I feel spiky, and although it’s self-destructive, I want to savour it a little longer — use it as an excuse to stay up later on the computer than I should. Perhaps even tidy up the house a little bit in a desperate procrastination of the bed-time dilemma.

My options are the spare bed (a bit uncomfortable and very far from the toilet) or my own bed. However, if I choose my own bed, I’m relegated to sleeping on the very edge so I won’t accidentally touch him. Both of us will pretend to be asleep but are acutely aware of each other’s movements and breathing. And we know we’re both pretending.

Or I could go in to the ensuite, brush my teeth noisily and then climb into bed and spoon him despite my protruding belly. Which would solve everything, including my bad mood (and I wouldn’t have to tidy the house, either). That’s it! Good night.