When I get home James is sprawled out on the couch with a book in one hand and his iPad in the other. “Double duty?”
“I get bored easily,” he says.
“I’ve noticed. Care to help?” I’m juggling several canvas bags’ worth
of groceries – no plastic bags here, no paper – and he hasn’t seen fit to shag
his ass up to grab at least one of them. It’s not his fault, at least not the
way that any of our natures are at fault. It’s not fault. It simply is, and at some point we either
accept or continue to fight.
Too often I choose the latter. Maybe I shouldn’t say too often. I’m a
fighter; it’s baked into my bones and boiled into my blood. Maybe it’s not my
fault that makes me a pain in the ass.
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