I Spy - Prose -

We sit in silence, staring uncomfortably at the floor, not letting our eyes meet.

We know that if we look at one another, we will start again, start an endless litany of excuses and apologies that we both know have no real meaning, justifying what we have no justification for.

The silence is stifling.

“So...” I try to break that awful silence. It feels like a kind of noiseless echo, some awful, resonating soundlessness.

Except I can’t think of anything to say.

“Let’s play I Spy.” he says. I almost forget our argument, almost jump up and stare at him, almost exclaim; “What?”

I consider the idea for a moment. It’s a good idea, really. It will keep us from shouting at one another; keep us from reopening old wounds and berating one another again. We have argued enough. Let’s play I Spy.

This will become a habit, after arguments. Other couples may kiss and make up; others  might spend time apart to cool off. We will play I Spy together.

“Okay.” I say. “You start.”

“I spy with my little eye...” he scans the room critically. “Something beginning with C.”

I glance around. “Cat?”

He shakes his head.

“Coffeepot?”

No.

“...Cup?” I ask, eyes straying to the smashed cup on the floor, delicate floral pattern still visible.

He nods.

“I’m sorry I broke it.”

He nods again, and looks at me questioningly. My turn.

I glance around. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a book that he knocked to the floor in anger. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with B.”

There are not very many things in the room beginning with B. He guesses it.

The next thing is the coffee table, the old one he got from that second hand shop. I knocked it over.

After that, it’s a photograph of my mother, at our wedding. He broke it.

A blue plate, part of the set Liz gave us last year. A pot plant from Rita next door. A clock Kath gave us when we redecorated, knocked off the wall when I threw my shoe at it.

Every so often, one of us will apologise for something. The other nods and the game continues.

I can see on the table the invitations that started this argument. Two parties, both on the same day. Two close family friends. I wanted to go to Jonathon’s; he wanted to go to Brian’s. It became an argument, then a shouting match, then an excuse to insult the other and dredge up petty fights from years ago.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with I.” I say.

“Invitations.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. We can go to Jon’s, if you want. We went to Brian’s last month anyway.”

“...Yeah, alright. We’ll send Brian something. Maybe wine.”

He nods. A faint smile.

“Man, we really messed up. I’ll get the dustpan and brush.”

I laugh softly. “Okay. I’ll put the furniture back.”

We work in silence, putting the room to rights. Together, we write a reply to each invitation, accepting one, politely declining the other. Together, we slump on the couch, sitting in companionable silence. Together, together, together. The insults and accusations from our fight have not been forgotten, but they have been forgiven.

--------------------

We sit in silence again, as we always do after an argument. Eventually, one of us will start the old routine, one of us will swallow their pride long enough to apologise in our odd way. Apology through I Spy, a children’s game to entertain bored minds on long car journeys.

The silence stretches out, each tick of the clock serving only the emphasize the soundlessness. Neither of us is quite ready, yet, to begin the game.

I can see a broken cup. A floral pattern is still visible.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with C.”

“The cup.”

And I know that what he means is “I’m sorry I threw it.” And he knows that I mean “I’m sorry I shouted.”

And although we never quite say it, we both know that we are forgiven. That the argument is over.

It’s amazing, how all that anger can suddenly die down, and our fractured relationship can be mended, with a simple game of I Spy.

And the game ends, and we tidy the evidence of our argument away, and as always we flop on the couch, together, together, together. We might not get along brilliantly at times, but it doesn’t matter. We are together, and that’s all that matters. We argue, but in the end, we are a pair. Love isn’t easy, and it isn’t always affection. There are times I could swear I hate him, but I know that I don’t mean it, that I wouldn’t throw away our relationship for a party invitation or a broken car.

Even if sometimes, it takes a game of I Spy to remind me of that.