The Mafia's Doll.

No Games (7)

Valerie Gauthen

I perched on the chilly bathroom countertop, my words explaining the evidence that took place in the early hours of this morning. "Then I smashed the glass of wine in front of him and said..." I was interrupted. The sound of the running shower unexpectedly stopped and was substituted by the dissatisfied expression on my partner's face as he slid the shower's door further open. A towel draped low around his waist, revealing a tempting glimpse of his happy trail. Droplets of water clung to his wavy, dripping curls as he stepped out.

"Is there one day you can't fucking talk about a case?" He grumbled, clearly irritated, gesturing for the boxer folded next to me. His disinterest reduced the enthusiasm I had, and he avoided meeting my gaze. Rather, he purposefully loosened his towel and slid on the boxers.

The mood shifted, my partner's frustration creating a tension. My attempt at sharing the challenges of my morning collided with his noticeable rage. In the silence that followed, I couldn't help but notice the distance growing between us as I made an attempt to come up with a response.

"Are you serious, Brandon?" I scoffed in awe, sliding off the chilly countertop. He continued to ignore me, striding past me to our bedroom, toweling off his wet curls. Slamming the towel onto the side of our bed, he grumbled, "I haven't seen you in days, and all you want to do is talk about work," before proceeding to his dresser.

I strolled further into our room and settled on the other edge of the bed. "This is what you signed up for when you moved to New Providence with me, when you asked me to be your girlfriend," I elucidated, maintaining a determined calmness. I wanted him to let all of his rage out. Let him exhaust himself; I was no longer concerned.

His irreverence for the complexity of my work angered me. I couldn't expect him to understand the demands of being a detective in a town laced with crime and corruption. I couldn't allow his momentary displeasure to prevent me from achieving my goal, which was to expose the underbelly of New Providence.

With a cranky expression on his face, he shook his head and took out a V-neck shirt and pants from his drawers. He muttered, "Maybe I made a mistake then because I can't handle being with someone who's married to their job,". I felt my heart hammer against the cage of my ribs as he spoke those words.

"Look, my love, I'm just exhausted; I just want to have a regular conversation like a civilian, something that doesn't involve one of your cases," he requested, his words remained in the air, a cry for connection in the middle of the crisis that defined what we were. His discontent mirrored the challenges of our relationship, a complex dance between love and the demanding nature of my profession. I saw fatigue in his eyes, weariness that matched mine.

I don't know what's wrong with me....I uttered not a word.

Brandon eventually turned to face me, his legs slipping into his jeans and pushing them up. "I understand that you're dedicated to your work," he said, "but you need to find some damn balance." I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. The weight of his words slammed against my chest, heavy with a hidden demand.

My veins immediately filled with ounces of rage as I shot him another gaze while he put his shirt on. "Balance?" I said this as I pushed myself off the side of the bed and to my feet. "You need to find some balance because look at you, going out on my day off," I exemplified. The exasperation boiled in my voice.

My remarks were like whispers in the wind, unnoticed by him. Watching him walk out of the room felt like a slow fall into a heartbreaking hell. With a sense of power, Brandon said, "Well, now that you have a day off at last, I think you should clean this apartment; it's a bird's nest."  I followed him around the apartment without a moment's hesitation.