The Quiet Man

The Ultimate Argument

God, you would beat me across the face with your bony elbows, wouldn’t you. One of your sharp knees would slam into my groin and that would be the end of it.

The kettle boils: I’m smiling at the thought. You’re all legs and cheekbones, dear god. It would be like getting into bed with construction equipment. I pour the water over two tea bags; put milk into each cup. No: we don’t sleep together. I put you to bed sometimes, I make your breakfast, I pick bits of organ meat out of your hair when required, but we don’t have sex. That’s not how it works between us. But I have never felt closer to anyone. So the accusation sits there at the front of my head, waiting for me to dispel it.

Arguing with myself is getting me nowhere. So I'll argue with you instead.

“She called us a couple.” I put your cup of tea down by your right elbow.

You don’t look up. “Hmm.” Complete disinterest. You’re reading the paper. I can’t imagine you find it any more interesting than whatever I have to say, but you are mildly tolerating us both.

“You were there, you heard her say it, I know you did.”

“Mmm.” Still: no interest. Not even to talk about her.

You care about her, don’t you. You should want her to know that you’re not with me. Not like that. You should want a woman you’re in love with to know that you’re available. That you’re not sleeping with your flatmate. That you’re not gay. That you’re interested. Why aren’t you doing any of these things? You let her think you’re with me? Why are you doing that? It would be so easy not to. Just once, just once, could you affirm that we’re not together like that? To anyone? Even if it’s just to me?

“A couple, Sherlock!”

“Yes,” you say, finally, still not looking up. “Well, there are two of us. Apparently she can count.”

I sit down and sigh. You won’t do it, you won’t ever confirm or deny. It’s strange. But I like it, somehow. It’s what I expected you to say, and what I wanted you to say. I drink my tea. It’s too hot and it burns my tongue. You, sensibly, are letting your cup sit on the table a little longer.

I never raised the question with you again.

But I could have. Maybe I should have.

“You know what she meant,” I could have said.

You’d ignore that.

“We’re not a couple like that, obviously.”

Nothing there for you to say except for polite acknowledgement that anything has been said at all. Politeness isn't your forte. So you won’t respond, as a way of getting the last word. I think you like to play with me like this.

“You’re flattered by my...whatever, you’re married to your work, right?”

You hate repetition.

“Are you in love with her?” That’s the real question. I already know the answer.

Would you look up from the paper, if I asked you that? Your steely eyes, you’d stare at me for a few seconds, at least, to make your point. Your point being that it’s a stupid question. Not worth answering? I don’t know. I’m missing something here. I think you’re in love with her. In fact, I'm sure you are. I’ve never seen you behave the way you did when you thought she was dead.

“Yes, you have,” you say, correcting me from behind the newspaper. When you’re only in my mind, you can comment on things I don’t say out loud. “I behave that way when I’m thinking. You know that. She made me think.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.” That’s like love, isn’t it? For you? Thinking?

I don’t know how I feel about that, as if that matters; it’s like I’m running fast and suddenly the ground has disappeared. If you’re in love with her, which I’m certain you are, I’m not sure where my feet belong anymore. Why do I feel so odd about it? I don’t know.

“Are you in love with her?”

I should be able to force you to answer. You’re in my head now. That’s all there is of you.

“Yes,” you tell me, finally. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” I say. My heart starts beating too fast. My hands feel hot and thick. I know the answer to my own question, and now I no longer want to have this conversation with you. “If you want her, you should tell her. You should...she clearly wants you. Maybe you should...”

I don’t want to give you advice on your love life.

She would know how to deal with his bony knees, no doubt. She would know how to deal with him. She asked if I was jealous; I think I am. It’s strange. I don’t know why. He’s mine, that’s why. He’s mine and no one else’s. I can’t ever say that out loud, god. The look he would give me. Maybe he would be angry. Or just laugh. Or ignore me. I don’t know. Why does this bother me so much? I want him to be happy, I want him to be loved, to love someone. Everyone should have that. Seeing him happy, with anyone, would please me, I’m sure it would. Because I care about him. I don’t want him getting hurt, that’s all, he doesn’t know how to avoid getting hurt. Well: no one does, do they. Everyone gets hurt eventually. The first time is the worst, though. Always.

“Of course I’m not in love with her, John.” You put the paper down on your lap. You're bored, and kind of annoyed with me. You see, but you don’t observe. “The truth is far more obvious. I’m in love with you.”

That hits me hard. Is that what he would have said, or is that only what I want to hear? No. Why would I want him to say that? I don’t know. We’re not a couple. We don’t sleep together. Define sleep.

“—are you listening to me at all?”

Harry.

The real world snaps back into focus. Harry is sitting across from me, a cup of coffee in her hand, looking truly annoyed. She was telling me about her work, I think. Shoes? The weather? I must have zoned out a bit. Memories. They’re so addictive.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Of course. Go on.” My tea has got cold.