Thomas came home from work the other day particularly upset instead of exhausted as usual. He didn't return my greeting when he walked in the door or look at me while I stood and watched him remove his shoes. I remembered the status he posted on Facebook a few hours prior – something about disgust at having to "pay for other people's sins." For a moment I thought that the church across the street must be projecting too much Catholic onto our apartment, but the thought passed and I asked him how work had been.
Some noise, a mixture of resignation and fury whose portion sizes I couldn't determine, escaped his lips. I listened to him, agreed that the manager—I never quite understood what went wrong—was stupid and that this was the final straw. I offered to get him something to eat or drink. He declined.
"What now?" I asked.
He told me he was going to let his boss know what happened and put in his two weeks notice. He spent the rest of the night at his computer, applying for other jobs. I was secretly happy about this, because I'd been telling him for months that he did more and was worth far more than what they were paying him. I agree whole-heartedly whenever he has complaints about the company. I tried to explain that even if he made a little less per hour, working full time anywhere earning benefits and having access to promotions would more than make up for it. Reading about events around the city scheduled for the weekend, I express frustration that he never gets a day off between Friday and Monday. I ask him to look at the job openings my mom found. I beg him to get a regular schedule so that he doesn't spend the entirety of his days off sleeping, leaving me waiting for him to lumber into the living room and mutter that he's still tired.
So I watched with awe how much his anger fueled him, how focused and productive he was.
It occurred to me then that his dispute with the manager was inspiring him to do more than anything I'd done for him. I saw, then, that anger was stronger than love. Anger was stronger than apathy, stronger than support from any one person.
I was amazed at the potential I peeked at around our floor lamp, the determination reflected in the tinted light of the monitor. The sadness didn't come then.
It came late that night, finding me sitting up in bed with my arms around my knees and over my face to keep the sobs from waking the body lying next to me.
It came when I realized that while I saw the fire in his eyes that night, he missed the love in mine because he never looked into them.
It came and I discovered once again
Love doesn't conquer all.
Some noise, a mixture of resignation and fury whose portion sizes I couldn't determine, escaped his lips. I listened to him, agreed that the manager—I never quite understood what went wrong—was stupid and that this was the final straw. I offered to get him something to eat or drink. He declined.
"What now?" I asked.
He told me he was going to let his boss know what happened and put in his two weeks notice. He spent the rest of the night at his computer, applying for other jobs. I was secretly happy about this, because I'd been telling him for months that he did more and was worth far more than what they were paying him. I agree whole-heartedly whenever he has complaints about the company. I tried to explain that even if he made a little less per hour, working full time anywhere earning benefits and having access to promotions would more than make up for it. Reading about events around the city scheduled for the weekend, I express frustration that he never gets a day off between Friday and Monday. I ask him to look at the job openings my mom found. I beg him to get a regular schedule so that he doesn't spend the entirety of his days off sleeping, leaving me waiting for him to lumber into the living room and mutter that he's still tired.
So I watched with awe how much his anger fueled him, how focused and productive he was.
It occurred to me then that his dispute with the manager was inspiring him to do more than anything I'd done for him. I saw, then, that anger was stronger than love. Anger was stronger than apathy, stronger than support from any one person.
I was amazed at the potential I peeked at around our floor lamp, the determination reflected in the tinted light of the monitor. The sadness didn't come then.
It came late that night, finding me sitting up in bed with my arms around my knees and over my face to keep the sobs from waking the body lying next to me.
It came when I realized that while I saw the fire in his eyes that night, he missed the love in mine because he never looked into them.
It came and I discovered once again
Love doesn't conquer all.
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