Fight

A memory about the softest argument I’ve ever lost.

She used to call the littlest thing a fight.
“...You mean the other day after we had that fight?” she'd say.
“That fight?”
“Yeah, that fight.”
“What are you talking about? I’d remember if we had a fight.”

Then she’d point to the tiniest flicker of frustration or a calm exchange of disagreement. A literal drop in the ocean.

“Hahaawww, baby,” I’d say, pulling her close, kissing her forehead. She’d pretend to tolerate it, roll her eyes at her own mild embarrassment while I grinned at her with condescending affection.
“God, if you think that was a fight, I’m scared.”

The first few times, I was bewildered. Entertained.
If that counted as a fight to her, maybe she didn’t know what a real fight was. An ugly fight. She’d never felt the teeth of someone else’s misplaced rage? Especially from someone who claimed to love her? Friends, family, lovers. We’re never safe. I’ve never not experienced their bite eventually.

Never had to calm them down while begging for understanding, for sanity? That kind of innocence, if that’s what it was, gave me an exotic sense of safety.
I wanted that.
I wanted to never experience a real fight again.
And if she couldn’t even recognize a fight in a lineup, maybe she didn’t have the DNA to create one.

Still, it meant I had to be careful. Extra eggshells. I didn’t mind.
I was in love with the vision of a quiet, peaceful life with her.

I was too happy then to wonder:
If this meant she wouldn’t have the fight in her when I needed her to?
When life needed her to?
When us needed her to?