"She" , inspired by Franz Kafka's, "A Little Woman"

I don’t know why she hates me so much. Perhaps hate is a strong word, but that is how I feel – at least at this moment. We are sitting across from each other, her eyes attentively fixed on me as she attempts to make eye contact. I, however, cannot look in those eyes, nor can I bear the smug grin and tilted head. It is the gesture of condescension, like a mother scowling over the stupidity of her adolescent son who should have known better. Protesting that I am a “man in my thirties” won’t help. I’ve tried that. Any protest simply ends in more severe body language – a shaking of the head and that long, lingering sigh that screams, “You’re an idiot! Grow up!”

Instead of looking at her, I am studying my shirt buttons as my fingers fiddle with them. She knows I don’t want to talk to her. She also knows I won’t talk to her. That doesn’t seem to bother her, though, because we’ve done this before. Every time she puts on that stern, unrelenting face I clamor up. I’ve never timed myself, but I would guess it takes me a half an hour to finally say something. That’s another one her spiteful tactics – the calm, patient waiting game. I bet she can sit for hours at a time, staring at me if she had to. She’s a control freak and a game player. And the worse part of it is she knows her body language, eyes, and perseverance are daggers piercing my conscience. She sees right through my nonchalant façade. She knows I don’t give a damn about these damn buttons on my shirt.

So, predictably, I change tactics. I move from button-fiddling to nail-biting. I should call it nail-studying. I spend a few seconds looking over each nail, deciding which one to bite first. When I make a semi-closed fist and hold my hand a foot-and-a-half in front of my face, I can see her reaction from the corner of my eyes. She also knows I don’t give a damn about my nails. Every time she wants to sit and talk with me I play this game – the game of not talking and waiting to see who cracks first. What does she want to talk about today? What did I do this time? I haven’t cheated on her. I’ve paid the bills. I haven’t yelled at her, beat her, or even gossiped behind her back. We’ve been together for years and, for the most part, I am content with her. It’s only times like these – times in which she holds her nose in the air and stiffens her upper lip – that make me self-conscious. What does she want? Why is she so cold and unfeeling right now? I am sick of her lectures. I am tired of her forcing her views upon me. Why can’t she accept me for who I am?

As I finish chewing my last nail, I muster up the courage to look her in the eyes. “Are you finally going to talk?” she gently asks with a warm, welcoming smile. I nod my head. She softly continues, “Where did we leave off?”

“We were discussing my avoidance issues, my problem with projection, and my self-absorption, Doctor.”