What We Fight About

Yesterday Tiffany and I spent a few minutes walking around our apartment in stony silence. We passed each other--blank-faced, like rude strangers on the street--in the living room and kitchen. In our bedroom and in the hallway connecting all of the above.

We were in a fight.

Yes, we fight.

Here's what we were fighting about:

We went on a run. It was warm in the city (thank god for San Francisco's autumn summer) so we didn't need layers. We chit-chatted our way through pedestrians and traffic and even tossed in one of the city's steepest hills at the half-way point, reaching the top without air in our lungs and on wobbly legs. Then, we started our meandering way home. And here's where the trouble started: Tiffany and I don't cross the street in the same way. We usually run separately, squeezing our runs in before or after work while the other is already or still at work. With that independence, we've established different rhythms.

At busy intersections with stop signs instead of lights, I time my approach with the cars going the same direction as me. In other words, I speed up or slow down so that I can cross the street with the parallel traffic.

Tiffany asserts her pedestrian rights--with looks in all directions, of course--as soon as she arrives.

In hindsight, I think we would both agree: who the f cares how we cross the street? But yesterday, we did care. Because we were both trying to cross in our own way, we often ended up with Tiffany half in the intersection and me hesitating at the curb waiting for my car. We got some angry waves, and the non-rhythm we had going made us angry too.

"Let's just do it your way," Tiffany said as we approached the next block.

"Fine," I said, knowing full well she thought my way sucked.

In fact, at that particular intersection, my way did suck. The perpendicular truck didn't want us to wait for him to go. He pulled into the intersection, saw us waiting at the curb, and stopped, waving us frantically on as other cars piled up on either side.

I mentally cursed his niceness as we ducked our heads and sprinted across.

Tiffany and I didn't speak the rest of the way home.

My brother sometimes asks me what Tiffany and I fight about. Someone else we know often says, especially in big groups for better dramatic effect, "I tell my therapist all the time the healthiest couple I know is a lesbian couple!" (I'm not sure who should be more offended by that statement--Tiffany and I or straight people. I choose not to be offended by the back-handed compliment. My old soccer coach was famous for those. Once, during a drill in the first week of practice my freshman year in college, I sprinted for a crossed ball, diving to reach it with my head and redirect it toward the goal. I missed. My coach clapped, then said: "That's okay, Rebo, someone more athletic would have gotten that ball!")

Anyway, I often can't remember what Tiffany and I fight about. We don't fight about the big stuff, like money and how to spend or save it. But every once in a while some little thing--like crossing the street--will trip us up.

And, big or little, I guess what matters is how you bring a stony silence to an end. Yesterday, as we walked around the apartment in our sweaty running clothes without speaking, I finally made my way over to Tiffany at the window and stared at her. This is what I sometimes do when I'm not ready to apologize but I am ready to acknowledge that we are not rude strangers on the street but partners in a nearly six-year relationship.

She stared back at me and we broke into smiles.

"That was stupid," she said.

"It really was," I said.

And then we weren't in a fight anymore.