I don't feel like doing anything today.
The weather is gray and rainy, and the lovely snow we got two days ago--our first major snowfall of the year--has turned to gray, dirty slush. There are times, in weather like this, that I feel cozy, even contemplative, but today I just feel blah. I'd like to melt into slush myself, and perhaps I will.
It would probably help if I had something definite to do today, but instead I have nothing scheduled, no deadlines, and a long list of things I ought to do sooner or later and no idea which to do first.
We've just had Thanksgiving, usually a happy time, and I guess I enjoyed it, but my memory of the evening is somewhat marred for me because of the tremendous argument June and I had afterwards. We usually don't fight, so I suppose we don't have much practice fighting well.
We had a good time, so far as I can tell, helping to cook the meal a my parent's house, playing with our nephews and niece, and mildly stuffing our faces with good food. Then, as has become traditional, Allen and Kit--and this time, Lo--came over for dessert and coffee and a small dance-party erupted. Allen, I should say, is not a skilled dancer, but he makes his attempts with such unabashed joy that he might as well be. Kit spent much of her time dancing with Ruthie, my niece, not only having a good time but also showing her some moves.
The problem was that on the ride home--back to campus, I mean, June went oddly silent. Her few responses to me, and even the others, seemed distracted, clipped. I think the others noticed--Allen and Lo are both psychologists, after all--and they dropped us off with a rather perfunctory good-night. Allen gave me a significant look, which I didn't understand until later.
For the rest of the evening, as we put away our share of the left-overs and gradually got ready for bed, June kept picking on me. I know I should write out the whole scene (showing, not telling, as a good writer should), and probably would if I felt better, but suffice it to say I couldn't do anything right, and when I finally got tired of it and demanded she tell me what's going on, she said something that didn't make any sense:
"We always go to your parents' for the holidays!"
Which is, first, not literally true, and second, hardly my fault. Her parents live much farther away, and June's new job pretty much ensures that we can't take off enough time to go visit them very often.
I argued back, but that wasn't right, either, and we ended up shouting at each other and I still don't really know why.
"You're blaming me for things I didn't even do!" I shouted, finally.
"I know!" she yelled back, as if this, too, were my fault.
We went to bed soon after, unable to resolve anything, and slept on opposite edges of our narrow bed.
Sometime in the middle of the night, though, without saying anything, she rolled over and wrapped her long, warm arms and legs, and her cold feet around me. In the morning, we enjoyed each other, and then I slept again. When I woke next, she had already left for work and the rain had started.
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