They fight at night
by Finnegan Flawnt
They fight at night and their chests feel tight. Oh right, he’s wrong, again, and she’s right, of course she’s right. He shouts, he always shouts. She screams, she always screams. Now he sulks, he always sulks, that bastard, I did ask him when we met whether he sulked easily and told him I can't stand it, and he said, smiling, yes, I'm a sulker and we laughed it off then.
Doves were circling above the lake that day and the mood was good and the pants were tight, oh so tight, too tight. They were far away from everyone and ready to roll.
There were sounds around them then and they were whispering to each other and holding on to their sanity because the love seemed to make them crazy. Or perhaps it was the fear of coming close again, who knows now after all these years.
Now it is night, and they fight, and then they grit their teeth and they smoke and they make plans anyway and run their life, run their lifelines from the family ship around their house and their car and their jobs, knot them around a pillar so they don’t come loose because then everything might come loose.
And they fight, at night they fight.
Oh right, she’s wrong, again, and he’s right, of course he’s right. The bitch, I can't take any more of her being right, always right. And she shouts and he sulks and later they hug, dug in their trenches, firing from close range, all their ammunition comes from the deep sea, muddy waters, but theirs. Around them stand other lovers and shouters, they're all right, they're all wrong, all the time, every day, every night. And they fight.
Later that night, after the fight, they sleep.
The man reaches out to touch her and the woman doesn’t flinch. Their hands clasp, from way up it looks like a dove, and down where they are, it feels like they’re together, they've got something to fight for, at night. They’re alright.
Doves were circling above the lake that day and the mood was good and the pants were tight, oh so tight, too tight. They were far away from everyone and ready to roll.
There were sounds around them then and they were whispering to each other and holding on to their sanity because the love seemed to make them crazy. Or perhaps it was the fear of coming close again, who knows now after all these years.
Now it is night, and they fight, and then they grit their teeth and they smoke and they make plans anyway and run their life, run their lifelines from the family ship around their house and their car and their jobs, knot them around a pillar so they don’t come loose because then everything might come loose.
And they fight, at night they fight.
Oh right, she’s wrong, again, and he’s right, of course he’s right. The bitch, I can't take any more of her being right, always right. And she shouts and he sulks and later they hug, dug in their trenches, firing from close range, all their ammunition comes from the deep sea, muddy waters, but theirs. Around them stand other lovers and shouters, they're all right, they're all wrong, all the time, every day, every night. And they fight.
Later that night, after the fight, they sleep.
The man reaches out to touch her and the woman doesn’t flinch. Their hands clasp, from way up it looks like a dove, and down where they are, it feels like they’re together, they've got something to fight for, at night. They’re alright.
Rejected by Rumble
Finnegan Flawnt is a fictitious writer and purveyor of fine podcasts, who uses social media for deep procrastination.
He lives with two females and a bad conscience under Milk Wood. He flaunts it when
he's got it at http://flawnt.me and http://flawnt.tumblr.com.
He enjoys fighting with Ms Flawnt at night.
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