The Hammer

“That was fun. Thank you,” she said tentatively as the car gradually made its way down Fourth Street. They passed couples walking in the night holding hands and restaurants busy with romantic dinners underway—dim lighting and tables adorned with roses. She looked at him and smiled meekly.

“Thank you for agreeing,” he replied, “I enjoyed myself.” 

The politeness in their tone betrayed restraint and a fragile, newly formed peace. Every word was measured. Calculated. Despite their cautious interaction, the conversation over dinner had been relaxed and comforting in its familiarity. At different moments they both felt acute feelings of nostalgia—momentary slips in time, five years back, laughing freely, energy high. The night was a success after months of constant bickering, volatile drunken calls, and shouting matches, so you couldn’t blame them for greeting the current pleasantry with open, if careful, arms. They made a right on Cherry and as it merged onto University Parkway, they nestled and dropped their defenses.

“Did you like my dress?”

“I do like it. You look great.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I don’t want to be overwhelming. I worried that dinner and flowers might be too much too soon.”

He wondered if she noticed this subtle change in behavior. She offered nothing in response and looked out at the blurring trees. She spoke— “You know, the other day I was with friends and uploaded a selfie of the outfit I was wearing to Instagram. I felt so pretty. I posted a sticker on it that read, ‘You were saying?’”

She let it linger. The air hung heavy with implication. With indignation. He became tense. “You really hurt me,” she added. Her words stung.

“I know. I’m truly sorry. But you know I meant none of it. You know how I feel. I was hurt.”  A long silence ensued in which he questioned whether he should continue this thread. He decided to proceed, his tone conversational. “I’m hurt too. There are words I replay in my head as well, but I don’t publicly post passive-aggressive messages for the world to decipher.”

“I’m not posting passive-aggressive messages for anyone,” she retorted. “I’m just reminding myself of something. I’m going out and dressing the way I want to prove a point.” An exercise in restraint: he said nothing. After another awkward pause, she decided to change the course she’d set. “Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to ruin the night like this.”

And so they spoke of other things—random tidbits to fill the rest of the car ride with and the momentary tension quickly dissolved itself. He pulled into her driveway and killed the engine. Her hand in his, he led the way up, his feet tracing a familiar path out of habit to her front door. He suggested they hang out again.

“I want to hang out, but I don’t want to agree every time you suggest it. What if we end up bickering like we just did?” She anticipated a reaction. When none came, she added, “Can I think about it?” She was anxious. He sensed it. 

“It’s ok,” he said and moved closer, “I understand. Let’s not worry about it right now.” He hugged her and returned to his car. Within minutes of leaving her neighborhood, his phone pinged with a notification. A text from her: You give up so easily. He wondered for the second time that night if she’d even noticed.