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11 April 2011 @ 10:49 pm
The Dig  
She'd waited almost three years to tell me about the miscarriage. We'd been cruising the downslope of our latest attempt to be friends. I'd never tried to stay friends with anyone I'd dated before, and so I thought we'd already gone through that brutal honesty permutation in one of our early, more naive cycles, the one during which I told her I'd read her email, and she admitted airing to her sneering friends my issues in bed. But then she always was the measured one, calculated; she'd reserved her big gun.

My circuit-breaker instincts snapped, switched me to the off-position. Toward the end of our relationship, the real one, not these echoes that stirred us every six months, this blank state of mine issued forth much more brutality than any of the fights that caused it. Quiet then violence. And when it got quiet again, I'd remind her again that I wasn't attacking her with my silence, I was protecting myself. She'd argue in a volume just below mine that no one makes me feel any particular way, that I let them affect me. Stupid as we were, we never admitted that we argued different points even when we both realized it.

"I knew you'd react this way. That's why I never told you."

I looked at her trying to remember the girl I used to love, the one who liked animals dressed in people's clothes but hadn't seemed to like me in a long time. I knew what she said was a lie, but still there was some truth to it. I just kept looking at her.
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