day 8: “i wanted to fight, he just wanted to finish his tea”
I was fuming by the time I stepped through the threshold of the flat. William walked casually ahead of me; either he is oblivious to my simmering anger or he doesn’t care. The latter is just as likely as the former, and who knew anything with William anyway. He was as capricious as a drop of mercury on a good day.
And maybe this was a good day for him. He was whistling, his hands tucked inside his heavy trench coat. Any minute now, he’d untie his blue scarf from his throat and hang it up on the coat hook. This was a routine I knew intimately from years of sharing a flat with him, but right now the whole ordinariness of it just frustrated me.
I was spoiling for a fight, adrenaline still in my veins from running through the streets behind his back, chasing after whatever truth he sought in the city’s back alleys.
True to my prediction, he removed his scarf and coat, hung them up on the coat hook, and moved towards the sofa that by now I’d come to recognize as his the way the armchair next to it was mine.
“Some tea would be great, John.” He flopped dramatically onto the sofa.
I gritted my teeth, but complied, shuffling into the kitchen to tend to the comforting routine of making tea. Putting the kettle on, rooting through the messy cabinets for two sachets of tea. Pouring water, letting the tea steep. The familiarity of the motions calmed me somewhat, and I handed William his cup of tea.
He took it without a thanks, sipping from it and closing his eyes in appreciation of the flavor.
“What, not a thank you?” I blurted out before I could stop. Some gratitude right now would be appropriate, especially after the trying day we’ve had. Which was, again, his fault alone.
“Come on, John.” He sighed, exasperated. “Not now.”
I wanted to fight, and he just wanted to finish his tea. The absurdity of the situation made me laugh for a moment, a sharp, scathing laugh that made William wince.
I felt a little grain of petty satisfaction at making him wince.
“If not now, when’s a good time, hm?” I sat down heavily in my armchair. “It’s never a good time with you, is it? You’re always off chasing one mystery after another and you just expect me to follow you and not complain!”
“I never asked you to follow me,” William’s face was stormy. “You chose to, so don’t you complain now.”
“Oh, now it’s my fault.” That’s it. I was done with this conversation suddenly. Why did I think it was a good idea to pick a fight with him? I knew I’d never win it.
The futility was amusing in some way, I suppose.
William remained frustratingly silent.
“Alright, fine. I’m going out to get some air.”
He looked up at me, and there was something there in his eyes that might’ve been an apology if I tried to convince myself it was. The truth was, I didn’t know whatever it was he was thinking. I never did, and that was probably part of the reason we’re friends.
Because he was right. I did choose to follow him, even if I didn’t like to admit it to myself. Life was just more interesting when he was around.
I took my coat off the hook and put it on, kept my lips shut. After going to all that pain to pick a fight with him, I was certainly not going to apologize first.
I opened the door. The cold wind blasted my face, but I went out anyways.
Maybe William would apologize when I come back. Probably not, though.
I found that I didn’t particularly mind after all.
