It was 1:00 am. With blood shot eyes I sat wringing my hands on our faux leather couch. The seams are busted on the edges so the puff is spilling out. I've contemplated putting tape over these eruptions but really...who wants to be THAT person. I sat contemplating whether or not I should mend the seams in the couch or just own the mess and cover it, maybe a pillow will do or that really cool washi tape that's all the rage. That fateful night our couch became the backdrop for one of the realest fights we've had to date. Past arguments about leaving the milk out, or even what the kids can and cannot watch, faded into the background. Buried under these silly quarrels was something much more menacing and it had scratched its way to the surface that night.
"What do you think about our relationship?" he asked. As I tussled with the little fibers that sprung from the armrest, I mulled over that word, 'relationship.' It seemed like an unimpressive way to describe what had become like the very air I breathe. The 'relationship' seemed fine to me. I've had more good times than bad and I love him. We have beautiful kids and a great sex life, what more could I want? Is there more to this marriage thing?