Bittersweet Victories

 

           “…I hate you.” He said coldly, and his gaze was so contradictory she felt herself freezing and burning with the combined force; the ferocity so grotesque and out of place on his pale, handsome face that she momentarily forgot not to be afraid of him.

            It seemed almost eerie, how his true nature flickered and was instantly chased away by composure. One moment he was playing the efficient gentleman, the next he looked like he might snap her neck without remorse, and then, with such a careful move she barely registered it, she found herself facing the gentleman again. “God, I hate you so much.” he hissed.

            She rolled her eyes, her bravery returned. Surprise, surprise. Somehow today had seemed different, like he would finally think of something more offensive to say than I hate you. Like that was a big secret. What were they, four? It was too much to hope for, she supposed, that he should finally grow up and get over himself.

            “That doesn’t bother me.” She folded her arms across her chest, and jerked her head towards the door dismissively. “Hate me all you want, but do it from the privacy of your cardboard box or park bench or whatever it is that pathetic incomes allows you to rent.”

            She shoved a box into his hands, its contents a mismatched array of memorabilia. “Just take your stuff and leave, okay?” His mouth opened and closed, then opened again like he might have thought of some suitably scathing reply.

            In the end he only grabbed it, and turned away from her, his entire frame jarring with his uneven breathing, expression hidden, but he was predictable enough that she assumed it to be one of fury. He always turned from her when he was losing control. Not in cowardice, but in vanity. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing the animal she made him.

            She threw his back a dirty look, as he retreated through her front door, and back into the street. She kicked it shut behind him, not even cringing as it slammed.

            Go ahead, be angry, she thought viciously. If he didn’t want to hear her answer, he shouldn’t have said anything. Even sarcasm aside, he couldn’t really expect her to react any better. As far as she was concerned he could get as angry as he wanted. She didn’t care.

            She really didn’t.

            Or at least not enough to coddle the vile thing. Let him work himself into a raging temper, and may he have a headache, and may he get complaints from the neighbors, and may the fates make his search successful if he sought a bit of rope or a razor.

            He played a crooked, unfair game, one with no rules or playing board or objective. It had no spinner or dice or neutral zone where their little top hat and racecar might rest. He just pushed against her so hard, and so suddenly, that she was forced to push back.

            Just like that, he’d make a move and look at her as if to say your turn. So she’d retaliate every single time. And they’d stay like that for hours, locked in a combat of words or wit, at war with each other just for the sake of being at war. No longer caring so much about the insult, real or imagined, but bristling at the other’s audacity to continue.

            Never a pause, or break, or a clear winner between the two. Only a smug sense of righteousness on each side and a single-minded tenacity.

            Oh, eventually one of them would lose balance, or fail to quip fast enough, and the other would finally have the upper hand. But, it didn’t matter.

            Not really.

            Because bittersweet victories hardly counted at all.