He just doesn’t shut up, on and on and on about his feelings. So what if I’m not walking around telling him how unhappy I am all the time? It doesn’t mean I don’t have them. He’s gone on for months about my indifference as he calls it. If he’s so miserable, why can’t I be? Maybe he’s right; perhaps it’s not this normal to feel like this about someone. Christ, I don’t even like him anymore, I don’t think I even care that he’s hurting. Inexplicably, it’s actually making him kind of irritating. So what if I’m not weeping into my dinner each night, bemoaning our life together? All he wants is things from me; I don’t have the energy to give it to you anymore. You’ve stolen it all. My ambivalence is the one thing which has kept us together for this long, doesn’t he realise this? I’ve done all the things he wanted. I moved in with him. Look, my stuff is here isn’t it? The entire sum of my life is now in your house and you want more? He’s screaming now, screaming in my face, not angry but ready to implode. Words tear through the air at me blaming me for everything that’s wrong. I look through him, right through his blotchy face to the cork board on the kitchen wall; mementos of holidays past look back at me. Happy faces hiding a fortnight of rowing on the Costa Del Crap. I was cooking when it started, the knife is still in my hand, I just want to make him shut up. You want a response from me; I’ll give you a fucking response.