I stood there for a moment.
Then I said quietly:
“Ryan.”
He glanced at me.
“What?”
“I’m exhausted.”
He nodded, barely listening.
“Okay.”
I took a breath.
“Please clean up tonight.”
He looked back at his phone.
“You can do it tomorrow.”
“No.”
He looked up.
I repeated myself.
“No, Ryan. You can do it tonight.”
He laughed.
“Megan, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m asking you to clean up your own mess.”
He put his phone down.
Then he looked around the room as if I had suddenly become unreasonable.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
He shook his head.
“You know what your problem is?”
I said nothing.
“You make everything into a big deal.”
I looked at the pizza boxes.
The dishes.
The clothes.
The towel on my pillow.
Then I looked back at him.
“No, Ryan. I’ve spent ten years making everything small.”
That silenced him.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
Not a kind smile.
Not the smile of the man I had married.
It was the smile of someone who thought he had already won an argument that I had never agreed to have.
“Fine,” he said. “If you want to be dramatic about it, go ahead.”
