I'm not a tidy person. I know there are plates on the nightstand that shouldn't be there, and the trashcan in the bathroom is overflowing, and for days, Derek and I have been in this stalemate situation where neither of us take it downstairs, hoping the other one will take it down. I put my used Kleenexes in there, and the Q-tips I use to put that cream on my scar, but he puts his floss in there, and the empty can of hair mousse. I'm not emptying it.

I know I'm being irrational, but I'm also pre-menstrual, so I have a valid excuse to be angry today. And Derek better suck it up.

Every time I go in there, I see more stuff in that trashcan. And it annoys me. I can't even bear to pee there because my eyes are drawn to it. He goes downstairs, he passes the wheelie trashcan on his way out every morning. How hard is it to take the freaking bag out of the trashcan and throw it in the garbage? This is why men and women need to have separate bathrooms. This is why I should think about hiring a maid. This is why some people think it's better if they just have sex with each other but don't live together. Is this what marriage is? Bathroom chess where we both don't move because emptying the trash is like a silent checkmate.

Bailey's put me on half schedule, which means I have half days off. Like I'm being mommy-tracked without the baby. Sometimes, it feels like a lot of my residency has been me having an easy time. First was the bomb thing, which, I was more than happy to have time off so I didn't have to think about how close Derek and I were to kissing each other senseless when he told me that he remembered our last kiss. Then I had appendicitis, so that was one week of half time, and then there was the time I drowned, and 'I was back from the dead' *in a scary voice*. Now, I'm being eased into it all because I have three-quarters of a liver. To be honest, the amount I drank in college, I'm surprised I was eligible to donate my liver…

So now I'm getting overly mad about the nasty trashcan. And when that happens I eat. But when I go down to the kitchen, there is nothing left there except Izzie's baking stuff, which is no good to anyone. That's not food! I look in the fridge, and there's a tomato in the salad drawer, but it looks like it's seen better days. It's leaking juice and seems squishy. I can't help but wrinkle my nose at that. And that's another thing Derek doesn't do- grocery shopping.

I don't do it either, but I'm happy with leftover grilled cheese and cold pizza and cereal straight out of the box. He's the health nut. What are we in, Jane Austen times? This is the twenty first century! Women go out to work, so men can buy food. I'm sure there should be some hunter-gatherer caveman reflex behaviour that makes Derek think 'Me hungry. No food. Find food.' But it seems like that never developed in Derek. Maybe growing up with four sisters and a real loving mom he never had to get his own food- everything must have been wholesome and homemade with love. I don't think my mom ever thought to feed herself, let alone feed me.

Out of courtesy, I waited for him. I had the assortment of menus laid out on the counter, so we could discuss what to have like a civilised couple. At least, that's what I think people would do. Actually, most people would have groceries and be able to cook things. But even if I got groceries, I wouldn't be able to do anything with them- I could make sandwiches, perhaps. By the time I have thought about what we could have from the take out menus from each cuisine, it's already quite late. Not that my stomach is the most accurate timer in the world, but it is making those nasty aching rumbling noises. But I will resist temptation and I'll wait for him. Because at the end of the day, I'm trying to be the best wife I can be, and while I cant give him a hot meal waiting for him when he comes home, I can at least let him have a choice of what take-out we are having tonight. As long as it's pizza.

Well, I waited fifteen minutes before I tried calling him several times, only to get his crappy voicemail. I was so hungry, I considered eating the tomato to tide me over until he came home. But after actually taking it out of the fridge, the only good place for it was the trash—which, I am still adamant I am not going to remove from the bathroom. I caved and ordered the pizza. And fuck him, with every topping he wouldn't like- that means extra cheese and no vegetables and stuffed crust. It's kind of like cutting my nose to spite my face because after one and a half slices, it's sitting in my stomach uncomfortably. My duodenum's gonna have a tough time digesting all that fat.

I wonder if he's called into a surgery, although it's not his turn to be the attending on call. He has that god complex that makes him so sexy- that arrogance that makes him think every other attending is shit compared to him. He's a good teacher though, he lets you perform procedures if they're pretty routine, and lets you do even more challenging things under his guidance. And it's not just because I'm sleeping with him. He's good with the fellow too. And I hope he's not sleeping with him.

He's an asshole. I just got a text from him saying he's at Joe's with Mark. I'm not so much pissed off that he's at Joe's, I'm jealous. I'm jealous because I'm not allowed to drink for another three weeks (I don't count that tiny sip of champagne I drank after Derek's miracle tumour surgery.) I wait for him, and I know that just by the delay of his shoes against the tiles of the porch and him managing to get the key in the door, that he's had maybe one scotch too many. His feet drag against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Hi Mer. Did you get my text?" Oh, he thinks he's so smart, mentioning that he tried to get in touch with me, trying to get himself off the hook. But his syllables are slightly more drawn out than usual, and I can tell he's a little drunk. I'm going to make him pay.

I turn round, and I must be giving him a hard-ass look, because his eyes widen and he steps back to support himself on the countertop. "Sure I got it. At ten o'clock. Thanks for the afterthought." I tell him sarcastically.

This is still about the trash, by the way, even though I can't bring myself to tell him that.

"I know. It was shitty of me. I'm sorry." He says, puppy-dog eyed. I hate that I love them, and that they work, the way they soften in an instant. But I know they're fake this time. My eyes narrow, calling him out on his crap. He comes towards me, his hands resting on my hips. "You know, I love you, right?" Cue more puppy-dog eyes.

There's a sincerity in his voice that gets me every time. There's a vulnerable little crack in his intonation. I know it's an aural aspirin, he's using it as a balm to try and cool my frustration. If only he knew that it was about the garbage in the bathroom. Damn him, he's making me feel sorry for him because I'm not truly telling him why I'm mad at him. I wrench myself away from him before I lose all self control.

"There's pizza." I tell him, in what I hope is a cool, stand-offish voice. I mean, it's not taking his apology too easily and it's not doing the whole silent treatment thing. I hate that. It's so frustrating when you don't speak to each other about the everyday things. That's weird of me to think that, considering I am a big avoider, I know. But it's like when I did that terrible thing with George, and he refused to talk to me. That was awful, because you miss them. It's better to talk to them about the inane, silly little unimportant things and not speak about the big issues that they problem is really about, because at least you can try to fool yourself that you're communicating, even though it's totally the wrong type of communication, because it's freaking useless. It doesn't solve any of the 'elephant in the room' issues you have. But it's all about thinking you feel better.

Now he's trying to explain it to me. "You know, after work, Mark dragged me to Joe's, and before I knew it, I had a glass of scotch in my hand, then one became two, and by the time I remembered I didn't tell you where I'm going, it was late."

I don't think it matters anymore. Not really. It was a fucking drink. Who cares? "I'm not angry you had a drink, Derek. I'm angry you had a drink."

It's still really about the trash.

Obviously it confused his alcohol-slowed brain, because his brow knits together in confusion. "What?"

"I'm growing a liver. And you get to go and unwind with a drink. I get to unwind by pairing socks. And that's shitty. I don't get to drink, not yet anyway."

"So… I shouldn't drink if you can't drink?" He asks carefully, trying not to sound incredulous or argumentative.

"Yes." I say simply. I know it's pathetic. Really dumb.

He shrugs his shoulders and takes a piece of pizza out of the box. "Ok."

My eyebrow raises in surprise. "Ok?" I ask.

Sometimes, I don't get this man. He should be mad I asked him not to drink for another two weeks, that I bought a pizza he knows I knew he hates, that there's not even a mouldy tomato left in our fridge. But he's there, heating up the pizza in the microwave, and he actually looks content. Maybe it's the alcohol…

He smiles at me. It's an 'I'm being supportive' smile. It's a smile that conveys the 'I love you' a thousand times better than the empty 'I love you' he said minutes before to try and avoid an argument. Sometimes I am shocked how much easier it would be for Derek if he knew it was the little things that make me happy. Like buying milk or replacing the trash bag in the bathroom. He gets a can of soda from the laundry room and takes his plate and drink into the living room. I sit beside him, tucked up into his side as he flips channels.

"I really am sorry, you know." He says quietly, over the commercial for some crap. I frown, wondering why he's being so apologetic about it, until I realise that perhaps I should be more upset about this than I am, or at least I should be making more of a fuss about it. I'm not so clingy that I mind him going out for a drink with his friends- if I could drink, I'd go out with Cristina too, we don't have to be with each other all the time. We already work together, sometimes I like just being the me I am without him. But I can use this as leverage.

"You can make it up to me by doing some grocery shopping tomorrow…and taking the trash out of our bathroom." I tag the end bit on as casually as I can, but emphasising it enough so that he knows I mean it.

The next day, and it's my first full day back at work, and as I step through my door, it feels like I've just ran a marathon. Every muscle in my back aches, and my head pounds. I just want to eat something, have a bath and sleep. Maybe just sleep. But the smell of cooking hits my nose, and instead of smelling burning, it actually promises to be good.

I walk into the kitchen to see Derek in the apron I got Izzie for Christmas last year, one of those joke aprons, with the novelty cartoon thing of a busty woman in a bikini. I hope she appreciated the irony, considering she is a former 'Bethany Whisper' model. I think she got it. He's chopping peppers. I can't help it, but it's a massive turn on.

He smiles at me as he sees me in the doorway. "Hey" he greets me.

There's definitely something about him cooking that is hot. It makes me love him all over again, as if I'm feeling it all for the first time. Sometimes, when you live together and share your life together, you can easily get bogged down in the mundane-ness of it all- who empties the garbage, who does the grocery shopping. But then there are these most silly, simple little moments when you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place, reliving it all again, the realisation of your love for him making your heart thump in your chest almost painfully. In that moment, you don't care he doesn't even notice no food in the fridge.

I walk up to him, standing on tip-toes to peer around him at the things cooking on the stove. "Mmm. Smells good." I say.

I'm not sure I'm just talking about the food.

Maybe it's the quiet moments like this that are truly perfect, where nothing happens. This isn't meant to be one of those days in our lives that we will remember in years to come, but at this very moment in time, I'm just happy.

We have a meal. We share some ice-cream out of a carton. He notices me yawn and then tells me to have a shower and then go to bed, because he's going to let me do a laminectomy virtually unaided tomorrow. I feel myself being drawn into sleep as I enter the bathroom and just throw my clothes into the hamper as I climb into the shower. I don't like to freak Derek out with showers or baths anymore. I know he relives the horrors of me drowning if I fall asleep in the shower or bath. I suppose he's the one who pulled a cold, blue, dead me out of the water, so I'll indulge his irrational quirk. As per my nightly routine, I apply that healing cream to my scar. I throw the Q-tip into the trash, and I hear it hit the bottom of the trashcan. I look down, seeing it's been emptied, and a fresh bag has been put in its place.

I go to bed grinning like a fool.

Derek joins me a few minutes later, unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his pants, finding his pajama bottoms in the dark somewhere on the floor. He arranges the comforter just the way he likes it, and I scoot closer to him, whispering sleepily in his ear. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He whispers back, although he sounds confused.

I know he doesn't know why I said it. But it doesn't matter. Maybe it's not just for one thing.

[b][i]Won't you bury me in your quiet love?
Oh bury me in your quiet love
Oh bury me in your quiet love
And we will blow away

Ingrid Michaelson- Snowfall.[/b][/i]