text: “What’s the matter with you today?” That’s what my boyfriend asks me as I, irritably, pace around the room, shoving keys, cards and my works name badge into an already over-packed handbag. The last thing I want to do is fight, especially on the eve of a 13 hour shift for which I anticipate having 6 hours sleep beforehand but that’s only if I can get all my shit together and drift off in the next 30 minutes. “Is it cause I asked you to do something?” I can’t tell if he does it on purpose but he always seems to know the exact words to drive me crazy. I have to assume I’m overreacting, it’s what girls do after all and more often than not these kind of petty discords always come to a resolution with rolled eyes and a knowing smile: typical woman getting worked up over nothing. We’ve been together for 8 years now. That’s an estimated number because I can’t pin point the exact date when we became “official”. I had been desperately smitten with him for many years before our relationship developed. We worked together and became friendly almost instantly. I liked his humour and the way he wore his hair and how he showed both rows of teeth when he smiled. I used to tell myself I was in love with him and, don’t get me wrong, I still do. The day he asked me in an offhand, noncommittal way; “so...do you wanna go out then?” I was sure I would never feel happiness like it again. People talk about stomach butterflies but my own gut seemed to habitat a pack of excited puppy dogs, all leaping around one and other and yapping, giddily. I cherished every touch, every moment of close proximity, every smile he bequeathed on me. This was it, I had found my soulmate, I was sure of it. I never saw anyone else, could never notice the friendly gestures of male co-workers and friends as anything more than that. Funny how time changes everything. It certainly changed me. I never realised how much I hated the word “love” until I was sure I was “in love”. It’s such a stupid term; something tossed around so often and carelessly it was filled with tattered holes through which all meaning and sincerity would trickle out. Any time he told me he loved me I cringed. It’s not that I don’t reciprocate the feeling, more that I don’t connect to the word. I had the sensation; the uneasy tickle and almost panicky rush from my stomach to my chest. I knew I “loved” him but I could never bring myself to say the word. Maybe that’s where things really changed for us. Maybe he felt that resistance and misconstrued it as something more literal. His response was to tell me, all the more, that he loved me and I was able to repeat the phrase back but my hesitance always tumbled out with the words. We were still affectionate. I enjoyed his embrace and the warm, comforting feeling of having his thick arms wrapped around me. I could drown in his hold, could live right there wrapped in his existence. Those were the good moments. The times when we would be close and enjoy being close with one and other. Other times we fought. I maintained that all couples fought occasionally while he insisted it wasn’t right. We spent a lot of time around the house occupied in separate endeavours and he tried, so stubbornly, to pull me into his pastimes. “We have different interests,” I would say, unconcerned. “We still do stuff together but we can’t be in each others company all the time.” He disagreed and soon I found him at my heels, all big, watery eyes and petted lips like a neglected animal yearning for attention. It got on my nerves and I would tell him so but it just spurred him on all the same. He seemed to gather most humour in his days from winding me up, poking and prodding until I snapped and let the frustration and exasperation burst out of me. He would laugh most of the times but other days he would look pained and implored that he only wanted my attention. But he didn’t have it, undivided, anymore. I had started a new job and my workmates talked, ceaselessly about a man in an opposite unit who had worked with them all for quite some time and seemed to be the most bizarre, awkward, clumsy and clueless person they’d ever come across. I was hooked on him at once. I listened to their tales of his embarrassing endeavours with rapt attention. I had never laid eyes on him, never stood in the same room but he occupied my mind fleetingly throughout the day, making brief appearances whenever I never read much into it until I was asked to cover staff shortages in the other units for a week. I was sat in the office of the opposite building one day when he walked in. There they were again; the puppy dogs cavorting around inside me. When he introduced himself to me I could feel that excited tightness in my chest, the familiar thud of blood in my ears. It all happened so quickly and soon I had it all played out in my mind; our first date, introducing him to my parents, kissing in the dark corners of work parties, our first home together, pets, marriage, children... ...and guilt. The guilt came over me so suddenly and unexpectedly I was sure it had been held being a rotting damn somewhere at the back of my mind for some time now. Well the damn had broke and the hot, stinging shame flooded every inch of my being. I felt sick at myself and filled with an overpowering grief at the thought of turning away from my boyfriend. How horrid could I possibly be? What a cruel and disgustingly selfish person I was. So there it had happened. Love. I could accept it now. I felt pure and undying love for the man I had shared so much of my life with and I told him so at every opportunity. He seemed pleased with my newfound heartful-ness and our relationship maintained. I forgot about the thrilling mystery man from the other unit as quickly as I had conceived the entire course of our imaginary relationship together. That should have been it. Happy ending and all that but time, once again, is like an endurable parasite nibbling away at the foundations of my emotions. A whole day of affection and enjoyment came crashing down in a heartbeat. All I had wanted was to watch the end of my show. It was nearly there, only six minutes left and then I could get everything prepared for work tomorrow. He had been talking all the way through it; he hates most things on TV and, somehow, this culminates in having no understanding or awareness of other people’s enjoyment. Now, suddenly, he appears before me with a laundry basket filled high with clothes. “Can you do me a favour and fold these while I switch the clothes over to the tumble dryer?” Far from feeling any resistance to coming away from my TV show now, I had been the one to put the very pile of clothes in front of me into wash in the first place and that was after I had washed, dried and folded two other loads. I told him so and earned a whiny lecture about helping each other out and joint responsibility and a whole host of other condescending life lessons that bore, quite effectively, through the last moments of the show. So I did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the time. I flew into an exasperated rage of exaggerated actions and irritable grunting. Clothes became folded so violently I was surprised none of them ripped. He was so mesmerised by my display of mad righteousness he didn’t even switch the other load over to the tumble dryer. So I did that too, just to prove a point and when it was done I began gathering everything together that I would need for work the next day while he followed behind and rambled off a ceaseless chorus of anxious questions. “What’s the matter with you today?” “Is it cause I asked you to do something?” “Are you mad at me?” “Is it cause you have to work tomorrow?” “Are you sad?” “Are you angry cause your show finished?” How many times can I expect to fall in and out of hopeless infatuation with one person? Love. I really do hate it.