In Defense of Civilization
Arguments are the basis and sustainer of all good society. Many generations of civilized people could vouch for the validity of that statement. True, arguments have been known to precipitate wars, but many a constructive exchange of thoughts have sprung from the utterance of an angry word. One might surmise that the practice of arguing aids in the furthering of a democratic pollination of ideas.
Said practice is not, however, a harbinger of decent sleeping arrangements. So declared the man on the couch.
He wanted to tell her he was merely indulging in the acknowledged backbone of society. The impulse for automatic gainsaying of her domestic theories was simply a defense of civilization. Rescind the right of verbal sparring and the foundation of humanity is decimated. Anarchy would degrade into cold chaos with the lack of fuel for the fire. In reality, he's protecting an age-old privilege; it was mankind's duty to promote freedom of speech. Mind, it was hard to explain this through a thick door, much less a thick head; certainly both barriers were now locked against him.
Banned from the inner chamber previously designated a favorite cohabitation spot, he was left to ponder his justification upon the scratchy surface of tonight's bed. Cushions had gained a measure of vindictive firmness in the span of an hour. Just this morning it had provided spongy comfort to their coffee breakfast, back when the day had seemed so promising.
He forgets sometimes.
From a daily position of authority, he can cut down the most respected persons with a growled word. Admittedly, there's a feral enjoyment of the resultant squirms and shudders. When one is obsessed with control, the satisfaction of achieving it is powerful. He fears indulging that secret beast too often, as it occasionally breaks its leash, leading to eruptions when unbidden. Like tonight.
He forgets too many times.
In this place, authority is supposed to be carefully deposited at the doorstep before entering, as two souls engaged in intense personal attachment should have no forced dominion over each other. Here such tainted habits require a twelve-step program to alter, an effort made easier by the natural deterrent of her talents. But like any good addict, his instincts seek to emerge before the brain can halt the progress. Rather than temptation, he can be thwarted by carelessness. Sometimes the words will remain seated in his head, but when voice accompanies thought, imprudence tumbles out ahead of recognition of where the sound will be directed.
The slamming of the door left no mistake as to the punishment for lack of tongue control.
Civilization, containing a present population of one, seemed a waste of good company. But his firm belief in the intrinsic right of mankind to fight without bloodshed kept his arms crossed in defiance. Not that anyone bore witness to the self-righteous posturing. A mere plank of wood separated them but the barricade would not suffer a placating knock of diplomacy. Apologies, she'd told him once, weren't worth the oxygen required to speak them. Lies used the same hot air for travel. He'd learned that while a work-related fight could be soothed with a quick 'sorry,' relationship mistakes failed to melt under the radiance of halfhearted admissions of guilt.
Surely brutal wars were resolved with less emotional reflection than arguments with her demanded. He couldn't just be sorry. He had to be able to explain the measure of his crime. It was her way of trying to change him, it seemed. Not that it was entirely unwelcome. Not changing according to his mate's needs had led to the dissolution of his last relationship. And those old battles had been fought with much sharper weapons. The arsenal that lay behind the door was oiled with love, reducing the frequency and softening the blow.
Rising from the sofa, he slowly navigated through the dividing waters of anger between them. Treaty in hand, contact was made with the door, which swung open to reveal the opposing party. She sat on the bed, looking like a queen to his jester. Groveling was an acquired skill, one she'd thankfully never made him attain. And no matter how they may struggle with maintaining fury, both knew it could never last. He would always be forgiven his untamed tongue. And she would always push him to master control over it.
Though fighting was a crucial and natural consequence of society's movement of thought, there would be no more democratic pollinations of ideas tonight. Civilization would have to defend itself without him; his argument was left on the couch. Because hers, wrapped in waves of peace, was infinitely better.