Make War, Not Love

While walking along a beach in West Kerry, Stef told me that a couple-friend of ours never fights. The girlfriend told her this. She didn’t say it in a braggy way. It wasn’t like she was faux-complaining about how her boyfriend is getting too muscly or spoils her too often. It was just a fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green and this couple doesn’t fight. They never argue or yell, they barely even bicker. They are the Brady Bunch in doublet form.

This wasn’t the first pacifist couple we’d encountered. I’d heard of two such couples, Stef knew a third. As we continued around the peninsula, we discussed these peculiar beasts. We convinced ourselves that there must be some underlying issues. It was the relationship version of the San Andreas Fault — the fault line that extends through California which will inevitably lead to a disastrous earthquake. For a couple, this could mean years of peaceful, passive aggression. Then a peanut butter-covered knife is left on the counter and a decade of suppressed tension erupts in a profanity-laden, divorce-inducing tirade.

It’s not that Stef and I fight all the time. We’re not the couple that hides black eyes under dubious cover stories. We’re most definitely not in one of those sexy Latin relationships where fiery passion leads to constant fighting followed by intense love-making.

If we were forced to categorise our relationship, and the only options were ‘fights’ or ‘never fights’, we’d have to consider it. Eventually Stef would chastise me for taking too long to decide and, more broadly, for taking so long to do everything. I’d complain about how she never helps with these decisions. A cartoon cloud would develop, with fists and boots popping out intermittently. We’d soon notice the irony and be forced to sheepishly choose ‘couple who fights’.

Our tiffs are generally based on trivial things. For one, Stef is a particularly clean person and likes to keep the apartment and all possessions in near-sterile condition. I’d consider myself tidy, but in a normal way. I clean up after eating and wash dishes. But I’d never have psychotic thoughts like “this place needs a good dusting” or “it’s about time these duvet covers got washed”. While living in Vancouver, countless fights erupted because I was carrying too much sand into the apartment. We lived right across from the beach. To my mind, sand was a little tax that came with living by the sea. It wasn’t like I was carrying pockets full of the stuff, walking around like some Flintstones character.

There is also my never-ending list of annoying habits, for which Stef has a low tolerance. It annoys her when I watch TV too loudly, breathe too heavily or eat too…,well, when I eat. That’s not me being glib. In romcoms you’d often see the whole fixer-upper routine. For Stef, the first fix-up would be to remove my breathing mechanism. She’d probably replace it with gills or something less intrusive than that horrible soft-breathing sound. She’d do away with chewing altogether. The food would slide down my gullet, like it would a duck.

I am responsible for my fair share of arguments. The very first fight we had was because I wanted chicken wings and couldn’t have them. I wanted to eat at a particular restaurant in Cork that specialised in them. We were outside when Stef saw an ex-flame of hers. She laid out her reasons for not wanting to bump into him and I decided they were reasonable. Getting hungrier, we found a replacement restaurant nearby. However, I had only one food on my mind.

We were already seated when I noticed the chicken-wing-sized hole in their menu. When the waitress came around, Stef ordered from what was admittedly a nice menu. I told her that I’d just have a coffee. This irked Stef, who told me I was being spoiled and passive aggressive. Undoubtedly, these were accurate observations but I didn’t agree at the time. We ended up cancelling our order and walking back to the car park in silence. As the romance was still in its infancy, this small blip seemed like a relationship-ender.

As we approached the car, I decided that if this was it, I should get the most out of it. I used the button on the key to unlock the door. Then, as Stef pulled the handle, I locked it again. This meant that Stef, in trying to open the door, fumbled over herself slightly. It was a simple, childish manoeuvre that I was particularly proud of. Stef’s reaction was to rush up to me and push me in the chest. I was taken aback, both figuratively and literally. She dropped her hands and squared up; all 5 foot 1 of her. Seeing her, fully prepared to brawl over chicken wings, was enough to diffuse the situation. Thankfully this would be the start of years of nothing-arguments, heavily diluted with happier times.

Although that particular chicken-wing-based altercation happened in a carpark, we don’t usually fight in public. Granted, this doesn’t sound all that healthy. You wouldn’t feel reassured if a suspected alcoholic told you they only drink in private. But the point is we’re not that couple. We don’t air our dirty laundry at dinner parties or jibe each other with thinly-veiled insults that make everyone within a mile radius uncomfortable.

Sometimes our arguments come so far out of left field, that I find myself being a little impressed. “How did that lead to that?”. A similar thought occurs when an odd-looking couple shows me their adorable little baby. The perfect example of these ninja arguments came while living in Canada. Stef randomly tried on my shoes and was tickled by how clownishly big they looked. She was already wearing my hoodie, so she started a cute bit. “I’m going to go meditate,” she said, mimicking my mannerisms. “Then I’ll do some writing.”

Wanting to get in on the act, I put on her hat and started an impression of her. Things escalated from there as Stef ‘mimicked’ the fact that I brought too much sand into the apartment. I did a ‘bit’ about how she incessantly cleans all the time. Soon, the impromptu costumes were forgotten and what started out as a cutesy sketch descended into name-calling.

Back in West Kerry, as we walked along the beach, we pondered which was better — a couple who fights or one who doesn’t. We decided that it’s hard to remain impartial. For one side, the fact that they argue is healthy. Two people can’t get along all the time, that’s just not human. For the couple that never fights, the lack of animosity is another indication of their perfect love.

It’s a tough call. But still, I couldn’t think of anything more psychotic than being in a perpetually happy relationship. Peace and harmony at all times? Sounds awful.

*****

On a hot summer’s day, I sit on the couch, taking a few minutes respite from the sun. I place my feet on the cushion and a trace of sand falls off my heel. I’ll clean it up later I think to myself. I’ll also wipe the sweat from my back. All in good time.

Stef walks in after me, picking my top off the floor. “Everything okay?,” I ask. She tells me that everything is dandy, although her jaw is quite clenched. She sarcastically asks if the TV is on loud enough. “Yes, it’s loud enough,” I say. Now my jaw is clenched. Stef sits beside me and looks downwards. I follow her line of sight to the pile of sand gathered under my feet. “Everything okay?,” I ask. “Just dandy,” she says.

She reaches out and holds my hand lovingly. Her grip is strong, almost uncomfortably so. As it gets tighter, the skin at the back of my hand pinches. I want to say something but resist, not wanting to interrupt this loving moment. Instead, I curl my fingers into hers and dig my nails tenderly into her skin. If I can just dig a little harder, I might draw blood.

“I’m so happy we decided to never fight again,” I say, although I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

“As am I, my love,” she says, a vein in her forehead protruding slightly. “As am I.”