novel excerpt 8.9

“i just want someone to think i’m not stupid.” i half-cried, exasperated. 

“no one thinks your stupid.” he scoffed, i could tell he wasn’t taking me seriously, again. 

“yes, you do.” i pointed my index finger at him, he got off the sofa then and walked into the kitchen. 

“my fault again, i’m the bad guy, again. i haven’t even fucking said anything!” he picked the loaf of bread out of the bread bin. 

“you don’t need to!” i cried, “you scoff at most things i say, whenever we talk about politics or pop music or feminism or ANY social issue. you don’t even look like you’re listening when i speak! you think all the music i listen to is awful, the films i watch are ‘made for the masses’, the jokes i make are lame, jesus fucking christ i can’t even BREATHE around you without you judging me in your head!” i threw my head back onto the sofa cushion. 

he stood in the doorway of the living room, eating a sandwich without a plate, crumbs falling freely from his hands and mouth. 

“i can’t help it if you like shit stuff.” he shrugged with a mouthful of Hovis and ham. any bets he had in this fight were off, he was too invested in the sandwich in his hands to argue. he simply didn’t care. 

i watched him for a few more seconds. engrossed in the dinner between his unwashed hands, he didn’t even look up at me once. with each crumb that fell to the linoleum floor, i hated him a little bit more. 

finally, i sighed, and quietly muttered what i always did when he shot me down about things i liked or said or did. 

“it’s subjective.” i stared at my hands, watching them get blurry. 

my string of dating experiences could all be connected by one thing; i played the stupid bitch role to make them feel superior, because i want the people i care about the most in my life to feel their best. even if that means making myself look -and feel- like shit. i was silly and goofy, and asked them what the gear stick even does? what’s that beatles album called again? how do you do an E chord on the guitar? i let them slate taylor swift or phoebe bridgers, i let them call my music taste ‘sad girl music’. i let them roll their eyes and change the channel when i put the kardashians on, i sat through black and white french films about the war or a ballerina that gets violently raped. i listened to all their fucking opinions; on war, politics, elon musk, billionaires, refugees, conspiracies. i never once shot them down or talked over them or told them they were stupid for thinking things. i wanted them to feel comfortable and free. why is it that none of them wanted that for me? why did my thoughts and opinions not matter? and why did everything i like have to be shit on? because i’m a woman.