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Pretending to be asleep, I watched my husband as he prepared for the day ahead of him. Still seething from last night’s argument, I indulged my anger a little as I mentally rehearsed all his weak points. I had already recited a few when he walked back towards the bed, bent over and gently kissed me on my forehead. “Good morning sweetheart.” His voice was trembling a little, and I could tell that he was also thinking of last night. He never calls me sweetheart! And he also knew that I was awake. Affectionate. I had to admit to myself that the man was affectionate. And considerate too, watching the way he tiptoed around, not wanting to disturb me. And then I was forced to face what really upset me about last night’s argument. If I was honest, it was not him at all. OK, perhaps it was a little bit him. Actually, a lot him! However, more than that, what truly bothered me on remembering those two hours was remembering how I had behaved.
It was not even as if the argument had been that serious. Even in those earlier days of our marriage, while we wereecstatically, deliriously in love, among minor spats and squabbles we had still had two blazing, earth-shattering, screaming rows, which between ourselves we still jokingly referred to as “the ragers”. And then after each of these we had spent days pouring out our hearts to one another, rescuing the tenderness between us, going about holding hands and together catching the sunset together – in fact, pretty much any glimpse of the sun.
Last night’s argument had not been that heated. I smiled as I remembered how I had thought before marriage that he…
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