Through the Wall

I have three files with your name on them.

I haven’t shown you any of them.

Sometimes I open one after a perfectly ordinary evening when nothing happened. We didn’t argue. You didn’t slam any doors. We had dinner, cleared the plates, talked about a bill we need to pay and what we need from the shops.

Those are the evenings when I write the most.

Tonight I open a new file and write that I’m angry.

I look at the word for a few seconds, then delete it and write tired.

Tired is safer. You can be tired because of work, August, people, a bad night’s sleep. Tired doesn’t point a finger across the hallway.

From the next room, you ask if there’s any coffee left.

“Yes,” I say.

The cursor blinks after the word tired.

I used to think it would be easy to tell the truth when no one could interrupt me. Here, I can’t see your face as I write. There’s no moment when I know I’ve said too much, no need to rush to add something to soften what I’ve just written.

Only the screen.

I write:

I’m tired of comforting you when I’m talking about how I feel.

Ugly sentence. Too many “I”s. No rhythm.

I delete it anyway.

Instead, I leave:

Sometimes I miss being able to talk without both of us getting defensive.

Now it looks better. More mature. Fairer.

I get up for some water.

Your book is still lying open on the armchair. You read every evening. Sometimes the next day you tell me what you’ve read, find a passage you liked and read it aloud again because you want me to hear the exact sentence.

My sentences are a few metres away.

You don’t read them.

You don’t know they exist.

I go back to the table and don’t write anything for a long time.

Even when you’re not in the room, I know where you’d raise your eyebrows. I know which sentence would make you go quiet. I know which one you’d call unfair, and where I’d start explaining what I really meant.

I hear footsteps in the hallway.

Without thinking, I close the file.

You walk past the door.

You don’t even look my way.

I wait a few more moments before opening it again.

The last sentence remains, neat and calm. I could say it to you. I could probably bear what came after it.

But that’s not why I’m sitting here.

I start a new line.

This time, I’m not trying to write something good.

It’s easier for me when you’re not at home.

My hands stay on the keyboard.

My first thought is to add sometimes.